“I often wonder,” said a local tradesman to me the other day as I was contemplating the majestic ruins of Framlingham Castle and the seat of power in the Eastern Counties, “that the Great Eastern Railway does not run excursion trains here.” I must own that I shared in that feeling. I am sure thousands would rush from town to see the place if they had a day excursion there. The railway in question has done a good deal for Framlingham. When I knew it as a lad it was out of the world altogether. It laid quite off the turnpike road. To get to London a Framlingham resident had to make his way to Wickham Market. Now it has a railway to itself, and that railway takes you to London, and thus makes Framlingham a living part of the British Empire of to-day. In one respect this has been a great gain for the town, as it led to the establishment, in 1864, of the Albert Memorial College, a handsome pile of buildings adapted for the accommodation of 500 boys. The object of the institution is to provide for the middle classes, at a moderate cost, a practical training, which shall prepare the pupils for the active duties of agricultural, manufacturing, and commercial life, and qualification for the Civil Service and other competitive examinations. The religious instruction is in accordance with the doctrines and practice of the Church of England. But I am glad to find that there is a conscience clause for the sons of Dissenters who are exempted from Church of England teaching and from Sunday attendance at the parish church or college chapel. It speaks well for the school that, though at one time it was in a declining state, for the last few years it has been in a very prosperous condition. It is interesting, as you stand on the lawn in front of the college and look at the decaying ruins of Framlingham Castle, to note how we have swept into a younger day. Ages have passed away since Hugh Bigod lived there; indeed, the origin of the castle is somewhat obscure. Its last royal occupant was Queen Mary. Thence she proceeded in state to take possession of her crown, amidst crowds of misguided men, who had rallied round her standard in the hope that she would respect the work of Reformation begun by her father, and continued by her brother. When the castle was built, brute force ruled the land. When the new college was erected, it had come to be understood that knowledge was power. The college flourishes; the old castle is a ruin. The world moves, after all.

I find Framlingham itself but little changed. There was a barber who, in my youth, had a picture of Absalom caught by his hair in the wood, while David cries—

Oh, Absalom, my son, my son,
Thou wouldst not have died,
Hadst thou a periwig on!

—That barber is no more, and I know not what has become of his sign. As an object lesson in history, undying interest attaches to Framlingham Castle and its adjacent church. The castle must have been one of the largest in England. As our Quaker poet, Bernard Barton, wrote—

Still stand thy battlemented towers,
Firm as in bygone years;
As if within yet ruled the powers
Of England’s haughtiest peers.

When I first knew the castle it was used as a poor-house. The home of the Bigods and the Howards is utilised in this way no longer. The castle hall is now devoted to the recovery of small debts and other equally local matters. In the good old times the nobles settled debts, small or great, in a much easier way.

The church was erected by one of the Mowbrays, and the tower, which is a handsome one, and from the top of which, on a clear day, you get a view as far as Aldeburgh, contains a clock presented by Sir Henry Thompson, our great surgeon, in memory of his father, a highly-respected inhabitant of Framlingham, who did much for the Congregational cause in that town. “Sir Henry Thompson was my Sunday School teacher,” said an intelligent tradesman to me, “and I have the book in which he signed his name as having taken the Temperance Pledge.” Framlingham—let me state by way of parenthesis—early gave in her adhesion to the Temperance movement. In the cemetery there is a monument to a worthy inhabitant of the name of Larner. He was the great Apostle of Temperance in the Eastern Counties. “He was for years,” Mr. Thomas Whittaker writes, in his Life’s Battles in Temperance Armour, “the man of Suffolk, the moving power, the undaunted spirit, the unwearied defender; and when it is remembered how special were the difficulties and how numerous the foes, the way in which he brought the whole district under his influence, and even to treat him with loving respect, it is the more remarkable. When he died the heart pulsation seemed to stop.” Out of the world as Framlingham is, and old-fashioned as is the town even to this day, there is a good deal of life in it, and especially so in religious matters. Including the college chapel, there are nine places of worship in it, for a population not much over two thousand. As far as I can make out, the Salvation Army here, as elsewhere, has helped to thin the attendance at most of the existing places of worship. If they can show a more excellent way it is rather a reflection upon the existing pulpits of the place. In spite of the Salvation Army, I met a man in the street who complained to me that Framlingham was dull. “You see, sir,” said he, “we are in an agriculturists’ district, and the farmers ha’n’t got any money.” It seems to me that they ought to have—at any rate, the public has to pay quite enough for its beef and mutton, and such farming produce as butter, and milk, and eggs. One odd thing in Framlingham is a tomb in a garden, which you pass on your way from the station, which preserves the memory of one Thomas Mills, a native, who seems to have made money, which he bequeathed to charitable purposes. Normans and Saxons seem to have had between them a good deal to do with Framlingham Castle and Church. At one time or other one of the parsons connected with the place was Catholic and Protestant, and thus went with the times. At a later period one had a more sensitive conscience, and was one of the ejected. Framlingham, like most English towns, seems to have been inhabited by all sorts and conditions of men. But its castle ought to be a rare place for excursionists to visit, and the country round is rich in rural charms. In the world, Framlingham, now that its castle is a ruin, and the power of the feudal lords gone, does not seem to have done much. It has had its day, and that day with its lords and ladies, and fighting men, must have been a grand one. Perhaps it’s as well that they

Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waiting.