DYER’S HOLLOW. 
* Quiet hours 
Pass’d among these heaths of ours 
By the grey Atlantic sea.” 
MatTHEwW ARNOLD. 
I LIveD for three weeks at the ‘‘Castle,”’ 
though, unhappily, I did not become aware 
of my romantic good fortune till near the 
close of my stay. There was no trace of 
battlement or turret, nothing in the least 
suggestive of Warwick or Windsor, or of 
Sir Walter Scott. In fact, the Castle was 
not a building of any kind, but a hamlet; 
a small collection of houses, —a somewhat 
scattered collection, it must be owned, — 
such as, on the bleaker and sandier parts 
of Cape Cod, is distinguished by the name 
of village. On one side flowed the river, 
doubling its course through green meadows 
with almost imperceptible motion. As I 
watched the tide come in, I found myself 
saying, — 
