CHAPTER VI.

MAIDENHEAD TO WINDSOR.

Maidenhead--Bray--Jesus Hospital--The Harbour of Refuge--Frederick Walker--A Boat-race--Monkey Island--The River--Surley Hall--Boveney Lock--Eton--Windsor--St. George's Chapel--The Castle--Mr. R. R. Holmes--James I.--Surrey--The Merry Wives of Windsor.

The next scene in our shifting panorama of the gentle river will be the fair stretch of bank and stream which extends from picturesque Maidenhead to the winding shore from which rise the proud towers of Royal Windsor. From its source, at which a little bright spring bubbles up with a low, softly singing sound, from amid stones and moss and grass, until it becomes merged into the immensity of ship-bearing ocean, our Thames, unhasting but unresting, flows for ever onward between source and sea.

"Thames! the most lov'd of all the Ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity."

And Denham adds a wish--

"O, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme; Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full."

One of the charms of Thames is, that the calm river "glideth at its own sweet will." It is no straight-cut, level, mechanical Dutch canal; but it winds and curves, it widens and it narrows, according to its own caprice and delight. And then, through what scenery it wanders! Locks are erected, in order artificially to check its full-flowing stream; but then Thames subdues even locks to himself, and makes them--especially the old wooden ones--singularly picturesque. Man is sometimes too many for him, but Thames, when allowed to have his own way, will tolerate nothing about him that is not lovely as himself. I love to think of the dear old river through all the seasons, and under all aspects. I fancy the sun-bright day, and then "the dark, the silent stream" of evening, when the untrembling shadows are so deep and full; when the belated boat is itself a creeping shade, hardly seen, but regularly audible through the sound of its beating rowlocks, and the splashing fall of its rowing oars. And who can ever forget the cool freshness of the dewy summer morning, before the sun's "burning eye" gleams upon the shining surface of the watery sheen? Then the still, dusky stream becomes "clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;" and then, perhaps, moonlight sleeps silverly upon flood and banks, on trees, and on dreamy habitations of slumbering men. The back-waters are then all mystery, the birds have all gone to roost; sleep and silence rest upon the resting river, the peace of night is over all, and still the gentle river glideth ever to the sea.

The Thames has, however, undergone one disastrous change. It has become crowded, noisy, vulgar. Its beauties remain what they ever were; but its character has deteriorated. Gone are the pure peace, the cool calm, the tranquil seclusion which--say twenty years ago--rendered it the most charming haunt of the lover of Nature, of the poet, too much in populous city pent, who sought an alterative of mental repose in most lovely and most quiet scenery. An aged ghost, restlessly revisiting the _cari luoghi_, must often find a change, great and sad, in the old places in which life was lived in love and joy; and he who knew the tranquil Thames in the old time, long ago, must find, in its brawling loudness of to-day, a change which renders sad the heart. I remember it when there were no steam-launches. Now, Captain Jinks, of the _Selfish_, too often troubles the water, as he, with his friends, enjoy themselves on the pure river which they pollute with their presence, and disturb with their rowdyism. I am credibly informed that one Sunday no less than nine hundred pleasure-craft passed through Boulter's Lock. To what secret ait can the river nymphs now fly for rest and delicate delight? Yes, the dear old river is sadly changed indeed, and our joy in it is lessened and lowered; but its own inherent loveliness is almost unspoiled; and we have to console ourselves by thinking, with Coleridge, that--

"We receive but what we give, And in our life alone doth Nature live."

Shaking off dull thoughts, let us stand for a moment on Maidenhead Bridge, which was built in 1772 by Sir Robert Taylor. Maidenhead, or Maidenhithe, is now almost the central point of those pleasure-lovers who frequent the Thames. Looking up to Boulter's Lock, which suggests very pleasant memories of Mr. Gregory's charming picture of it, we see on high the white mansion of Cliefden, embowered in a wealth of thickly clustering noble woods, which slope downwards from hill crest to river bank, and present a long sky-line composed of every shade of ever-varying greenness. Nearer to us, on the right, rise from out the thick leafage the turrets and spires of Taplow Court. On the left is the ivied Bridge House; on the right the old hostelry, the well-known "Orkney Arms." In the golden days of Mr. and Mrs. Skindle the house was white, but it is now of brand-new flaring red-brick, thickly pointed. Before us, where the channel slopes round towards the Lock, we see a large ait of alders. Gardens, flowers, trees, adorn the land, while the water is crowded with boats and punts. Looking towards Bray, the view is spoiled by the railway bridge, which is a leading case of engineering _versus_ the picturesque. The railway bridge need not, however, mar our pleasure much, for shall we not soon row under it on our way to Windsor?

And now our boat awaits us at Mr. Bond's landing-stage, and we will start on our pleasant little smooth-water voyage. In a few moments we float under that wide-arched railway bridge which had hidden Bray from us; and we see on our right hand an old church tower rising apparently from out a cluster of tall, gaunt, windy poplars. We must land at Bray. The church has been severely restored, but it presents specimens of the historical architectural sequence of Early English, of Decorated, and of Perpendicular. It contains good brasses (particularly one of Sir John Foxle and his two wives), which range in date between 1378 and 1594; and it is celebrated for its only too well-known vicar, who enjoys all the popularity which attaches to comic baseness. Stone and flint are largely used in this church; but we eagerly pass on from the churchyard to seek the Jesus Hospital, founded in 1627 by William Goddard, as a refuge for forty poor persons. This beneficent refuge is a very picturesque quadrangle of one-storey brick almshouses, and the quadrangle encloses garden plots planted with flowers. It seems to be well maintained and well cared for.

But the Jesus Hospital has an interest which transcends its own picturesqueness and exceeds almost its own value. It is the scene selected by a young painter of genius--Frederick Walker--as a suggestion for his noble picture, the "Harbour of Refuge." Ruskin says, "A painter designs when he chooses some things, refuses others, and arranges all;" and Walker has chosen to do away with the gardens, and to fill up the quadrangle with a lawn, a statue, and a terrace. The old chapel he rightly retains. He has sacrificed fact to the higher truth of ideal art. Walker was emphatically not one of those many painters who have mistaken their vocation. He was a true and an original artist. He saw a poetical suggestion in this retreat for poverty and for age; and in the tender sadness of summer evening after sunset he has placed a mower, whose scythe, like that of Time, is sweeping down things ripe for death. The night, in which no man can work, is about to fall; and a few figures, chiefly of sad, of aged, worn-out men and women, are waiting until the angel of Death shall gather them to deathless peace. The sentiment, the poetry of the picture, are most touching. Scene and hour are felicitously selected, and the humanity which belongs to this pictorial drama is finely conceived. World-wearied, life-worn creatures, old, weak, poor, and sad, with the flicker of faint life just lingering tremblingly, are those on whom the painter has laid stress. They stand upon the low, dark verge of life, the twilight of eternal day; and soon, very soon, shall they relax their weak grasp of life, and go hence, and be no more seen. Such was the idea that dominated Walker, and he has realised his idea. There is infinite pathos in this work of tender melancholy and of exquisite loveliness. I saw the window from which the painter made his study of the place--a study of fact which his genius afterwards so nobly idealised. As we row away from Bray, my mind is full of the picture and of its painter; and a reminiscence of my dead friend, the gentle artist, Walker, rises in my thought: a reminiscence which will, I hope, fitly find a place here.

At the time during which Fred Walker was staying at Cookham I was very frequently rowing on the river. A dear old friend, Mr. E. E. Stahlschmidt, was my constant companion, and we were much in the habit of using a light outrigged pair-oar, which was a fairly fast, though rather a crank boat, and which could carry a sitter who could or would sit still and steer. We were staying at the "Orkney Arms" at Maidenhead, and Fred Walker inhabited a cottage at Cookham. It was arranged one day that we were to row our boat from Maidenhead to Cookham, and were there to take Walker on board, and then to row him to Marlow and back. The day was one at the end of May in 1866. How well I remember that row! It seems to me that the same sun is shining to-day that shone upon that day, so vividly does the fair by-flown time come back to me. We passed by the Cliefden Woods, by Formosa, and through Cookham Lock, and then rowed down the narrow arm of water which is opposite to Hedsor, and joins the main stream a little below Cookham Bridge. No doubt as to whether Walker were ready. The slight, active figure was dancing about with delight as he hailed us. He was full of joy, was quivering with excitement. The day was warm and fine, but the sky was grand with towering cumulus cloud-masses, which might change to nimbus clouds, and then mean rain. We went ashore, and strolled about the pretty, quiet, old village, looking at, amongst other things, the churchyard in which the great painter who was that day so much alive now rests in death.

At length we were ready for our voyage, and we entered the boat. Walker was steering, I was pulling stroke, and my friend was bow. It happened that while we were stopping at Cookham, a randan boat was also waiting there to start. This boat put off just when we did, and when both boats reached the broad, open water, the randan proposed a race to Marlow.

Both my friend and myself would have treated such a proposal for a scratch race with extreme contempt; but not so our coxswain. His keen nature always craved excitement, and he eagerly accepted the randan's challenge. I told him that it was all nonsense, and not worth doing; but race he would. I then warned him that a race to Marlow was a long one, and that I should pull a slow stroke, so that he must not be surprised if the other boat got a long way ahead. I knew that my bow could pull steadily any stroke that was set him. We were both rowing a good deal at that time, and were in decent training. The preposterous race commenced; a thing that would have been comic, but for the intense eagerness and feverish excitement of our eminent but nervous little coxswain. His eyes grew large, he breathed short, his face was pale. If something of moment had depended upon the race he could not have been more in earnest. One annoying result of his mental condition was, that he kicked and stamped about, and rocked the boat. I cautioned, and entreated him to sit quietly; but I preferred a request with which he could only with difficulty comply.

As I expected, the randan started pulling with all its might; and soon went away from us. Poor Walker was in despair. He saw the other boat apparently gaining fast, and he was seized with twitchings. In a voice weak with anguish, he implored us to "wire up, you fellows; wire up! Oh, you don't know how far they're getting ahead. For Heaven's sake, pull all you know!" He was depressed and dismayed, and was really unhappy. I could not talk much, I could only growl out an occasional adjuration to "be quiet!" an injunction with which he complied the better because he thought that we were losing fast. I continued pulling very steadily a long stroke of about twenty-nine, and was well backed up. The other boat still went ahead, and poor despondent Walker was almost in tears.

A mile or more is traversed, and I begin to fancy that I can hear the rowing of the other boat. Presently Walker's frantic joy tells us that we are gaining upon them, and he urges us to furious exertions. Of his counsels we took no notice, but pulled steadily the old, long stroke. Then we began to draw level with the antagonist, and soon I saw a bit of the boat. We never looked up or altered the stroke; but Walker chortled aloud, and could not restrain some expressions of exulting and emotional _persiflage_. We tried in vain to dissuade him. He was too excitable for such self-repression. At length I found my oar pulling level with the scull of the randan, and a little later I was up to the bow oar. The randan put on a spurt, but we drew quietly away, and had passed them when the boats were a couple of miles from home. Walker's triumph was irrepressible; his laughter was long and loud, and I thought that he would have tumbled overboard. He _would_ mock at the other boat. When we were well clear of the randan, I saw that they were pumped out, and were splashing wildly. No further danger from them. We increased our distance gradually, passed through the lock, and had finished our luncheon at the "Compleat Anglers" before the defeated randan arrived. During our meal, we were looking at the scene of Walker's delicious picture, the "Marlow Ferry." He was delightedly elated at the result of the little race--kept talking about it with the eagerness of a happy child, and admitted gleefully how efficient the long, quiet stroke was, especially in a hard four-mile pull against stream. He was happy that day.

Afterwards we walked out along the banks which look on Bisham Woods. Then the born painter forgot the race, and became absorbed in his deep, reverent love of nature. Supporting his chin upon his hands, he lay down on the warm, dry turf, and his large eyes dilated as he gazed, with inner rapture, upon that lovely scene, glowing in the light of such a perfect sunny day. He had no gift of expression--except with the brush in his skilful hand. He could never find expression in words. I remember hearing him murmur then, as he gazed long and lovingly upon a calm beauty that he could feel so well, "Opalescent!" That was all he said; but his spirit had drunk in the joy, the peace, the glory of the scene and time. He was probably seeing a picture; though he did not lean to painting full sunlight. His cheek even then was hollow; his large eyes were dangerously bright; his whole aspect expressed his ambition, his self-consuming art-soul, his terribly if exquisitely-strung nervous system, and fatally excitable temperament. We did not then foresee that the frail frame, so sensitive and delicate, would fail so sadly and so soon. His was, indeed--

"A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay, And o'erinformed the tenement of clay."

Now, by the sweet banks of the fair river that he loved so well, the gentle and gifted painter sleeps his last sleep beneath the shadow of the old Cookham church tower. The Thames is all the dearer to those who have often seen it with Frederick Walker. A sacred memory is blended with the river's loveliness.

We rowed him back that day to Maidenhead, and afterwards to Cookham. For some time after he spoke often, and spoke joyously, of the little scratch race which I have now endeavoured, with a sad, yet soft regret, to recall to my own recollection, and to bring to the sympathetic knowledge of my readers. Those who knew the man will ever love him; those that did not know him personally may well love the ardent, strenuous painter for the sake of his pure and gentle art.

The Thames, following Sheridan's advice, flows ever between its banks--and then what banks they are! As our boat glides along the sliding stream, we pass by many a fair and stately home of ancient peace; we pass many a smooth lawn and garden gay with flowers; we pass by rushes, willows, aits; we pass noble woods, and full meadows in which the rich grass is studded with white and yellow flowers, while sunlight is softly speckled by the calm shadows of lofty, feathery elms. The tall elms have thick clusters of foliage glowing in sunshine, and beneath these bright leaf-clumps sleep deep hollows of soft shade. Yes, our Thames is emphatically a summer stream. We row by reeds, the home of swans, the haunt of moor-hens; by islets which bear alders, osiers, weeds, and rushes. Reflected in the water is the purple colour of the wild foxglove, while the many bank flowers are interspersed with meadow-sweet, with loose-strife, and with broad dock-leaves. On the shining surface of the bright, calm water float lovely lilies, white or yellow, which are connected by long, wavy stems with roots which hold firmly to the ground at the very bottom of the river. We pass the turbulent mill-stream, and the foam-fretted weir; we see picturesque eel-bucks and shady backwaters. We wind and curve with the ever wayward flood, and we find but few stretches which fail of beauty or are wanting in peace. The Thames is the chosen haunt, too, of pleasant painters and of pretty women; and to this choice combination the grateful stream lends a charm as great as that which it receives from such artists and such girls. Truly, our Thames is almost too fair to be looked upon except on holidays.

Following the law of natural or elective affinities, fair women are attracted by the fair river. I think that I never was upon the Thames without seeing some specimen, or specimens, of female loveliness and grace. Pretty girls belong as naturally as the swans do to our Thames. It is a singular fact that natural objects of great charm allure to themselves suitable women. Art does not, as a rule, draw to itself much feminine youth and charm; but the Thames emphatically does so. Look at that boat which we have just passed. What loveliness and love in those two young, graceful girls who are being rowed, while one of them--the one in the boating hat--steers. What eyes those were which they rested for a moment upon our passing craft! Which do you prefer? the one in the blue serge frock, or the taller one in the white robe? I don't know; I could not decide; but I do know that we shall probably meet with more distracting charmers before our little voyage shall cease. Girls often steer very well, and sometimes they row, especially with light sculls, very admirably. I have known pretty young ladies who sculled deliciously, and who lent to the exercise a distinctively feminine skill and grace.

The Thames is essentially a summer river; always with the reserve of the delight of the sad and splendid hues of autumn in the woods. The aspect under which the river shows to least advantage is that of a bleak, grey day, when a coarse, cold, blusterous wind is blowing loudly. Like a pretty woman, the fair Thames should never have its surface serenity disfigured by passionate turbulence or wrinkled by debasing anger. A rough, cruel wind disturbs the characteristics, and distorts the appearance of the pure silver stream. The gentle, peaceful river should ever be smiling and be calm. There is less objection to the sullen grandeur of a heavy storm, dark with thunder, squally with rain, while a gust of fierce wind sweeps beneath the sombre cloud-heaps, and lashes up the troubled water. Yet the Thames should preserve a chaste and delicate quiet. Sunny stillness, the majesty of soft repose, are its true characteristics. In brutal, cheerless weather, it looks like a fair face degraded by ignoble pain. Its sweet essence should not be outraged by vulgar fury.

Now, just as we come to Monkey Island, a hush falls upon the sunshine, a soft shade overspreads the heavens; and a summer shower, dinting the glassy surface of the water with dimpling rain-drops, falls gently, and ceases soon. Shine out, fair sun! And so it does again, till joy returns with sunlight and with warmth. "Man's delight in God's works" can find rapture in nearly every phase of nature. Monkey Island is an inn built upon an islet. It comprises a pavilion erected by the third Duke of Marlborough, in which certain monkeys are cleverly depicted by one Clermont. We need not land there to-day.

Our boat floats ever downward with the stream, and we pass Down Place, Oakley, the Fisheries, until we reach Surley Hall, an inn much frequented by Eton boys, who come here for refreshment at that happy age in which it is possible to lunch off olives and toffee. The river, at this part of it, is not distinctively beautiful. Soon the channel is bifurcated, one arm, over which is written the ominous warning, "_Danger_," leading to the Weir, while the other arm conducts to Boveney Lock. Once through this lock, and we are in the region of Eton and of Windsor. Eton Chapel is on our left, while before us, growing greater as we near it, Windsor Castle rises upon the sight in ever grander proportions. Eton is the swimming and rowing school, and we are passing the Brocas and those memorable playing-fields which have trained so many boys into men of mark and leading. We will halt for just a glimpse of Eton, and will stroll through the picturesque quadrangles of noble fifteenth century brickwork; will glance at the stone chapel; at the hall, library, and masters' houses; thinking of Henry VI., who, in 1441, founded Eton, after having studied the statutes of William of Wykeham at Winchester. Eton is no longer a school for indigent scholars, as it was meant to be, and was, when William of Waynflete was its first master. But we cannot linger long at Eton, and we shall see again the chapel from the North Terrace of Windsor Castle. Let us re-embark. Our voyage is nearly over. Already the landing-place at Windsor; and lo! the great castle towers just above us.

Windsor Castle is the noblest regal pile, the most splendid palace castle in Europe; but it is seen to the best advantage when regarded from a distance, and contemplated in its totality. Perhaps the grand, irregular castle, which is perched upon a height, looks finest when seen from below; and the towering mass of royal buildings certainly appears at its best when seen from afar. There is no finer view than that from the river. When the castle is seen from within, and when its detail is looked at closely, there is much that is disappointing; and the chief architectural blot is the abominable restoration of Sir Jeffrey Wyattville, who was the architect of George IV. and of William IV. Wyattville is credited with some respect for the interior, but his external architecture is wofully bad. He has made the great quadrangle in the Upper Ward a most dreary thing. His uniform, conventional Gothic is mean and ugly in the extreme; and Wyattville adopted the hateful system of pointing his stones with black mortar. For an illustration of the bad effect of this evil work, it is sufficient to compare any of Wyattville's restored towers with the recently and well-restored Clewer or Curfew tower, in which white mortar is used, so that the stones are not cut off into squares set in black borders. It were devoutly to be wished that a competent Gothic architect should get rid of the traces of Wyattville's fatal work. The cost would be great, but no expense could be too heavy for restoring such an historical building to architectural beauty and value.

On my visit to Windsor--a visit made for the purposes of this article--I had the singular advantage of being conducted over the castle by my friend, Mr. R. R. Holmes, Her Majesty's librarian. This courteous and cultured gentleman has in the royal library curious old plans of the castle in various stages of its creation; and no one can speak with more authority about the great palace which Mr. Holmes loves so well and knows so thoroughly. I cannot too strongly express my gratitude to him for his invaluable assistance, so pleasantly rendered.

It is, of course, impossible in these narrow limits to present any complete picture of Royal Windsor. Such a subject cannot be exhausted in such an article. I can only suggest a few points of interest, and merely endeavour to place those readers who may visit the Thames in my wake in a position to obtain some hint and glimpse of part of the romance, at least, of our most royal castle.

Windsor is associated with the records of all the reigns since the Conquest. Its annals cover the Court life of all the centuries since the Norman came to rule in England. It is linked with all our history, and old as it is, it is ever young with the glow and poetry of romance. The Saxon kings had a palace at Old Windsor, and Edward the Confessor kept his Court there, but the site of that old royal dwelling cannot now with certainty be determined. William the Norman moved to New Windsor, but there is nothing visible in the present castle of an earlier date than Henry II. The ancient entrance, with the sheath of its portcullis plainly visible, shows clear traces of Henry II.'s work.

The great royal builders at Windsor whose works follow them, and are still extant, are Henry II., III., Edward III., IV., Henry VII., VIII., and Queen Elizabeth, who was the foundress of the splendid North Terrace. All Charles II.'s work has been swept away by that Wyattville who did so much disastrous "restoration" for George IV. and William IV. In Windsor was founded by Edward III., 1348, that noble and royal Order of the Garter which sprang from a king's chivalrous homage to a pure and lovely lady. William of Wykeham was, in 1356, surveyor of the king's works, and dwelt in that Winchester tower which has been so sorely spoiled by Wyattville; and Chaucer, also under Edward III., was "clerk of the repairs" at Windsor. One loves to fancy the sweet, cheerful old poet riding, on some fair and fresh May morning, through the royal park, while birds were singing and May blooms blossoming, looking lovingly at nature, his lips wreathed with a serene and sunny smile. Chaucer would, I think, ride gently on an ambling palfrey in preference to backing a mettled steed. One likes dearly to connect images of Chaucer and of Shakspeare with Windsor Park.

The St. George's Chapel is an ideal chapel for such a palace-castle as Windsor. It is at once sumptuous and romantic, picturesque and full of colour. It is a chapel for kings and knights; especially for kings who were also knights and warriors. It is also the royal chapel for the kingly Order of the Garter. The Choir is fitted up with the stalls of the members of the Order, and above each stall hang banners, helmets, crests, and swords. The chapel was built by Edward IV., and was commenced in 1472, the architects being Bishop Beauchamp and Sir Reginald Bray. All such old ecclesiastical edifices are sacred to the dead as well as precious to the living. Beneath the feet of those who worship there to-day rests the dust of kings; of those who, in by-past times, worshipped also here while they were in the land of the living. The tomb of the founder, Edward IV., is here; and the chapel covers the graves of Henry VI., Henry VIII., Jane Seymour, and of Charles I. In 1813 the grave of Charles was opened, and the few who looked upon the remains of the beheaded king could easily recognise the face and form of Charles Stuart. Every visitor to Windsor is, however, sure to see St. George's Chapel; and true it is, of this building, "that things seen are mightier than things heard." We leave our readers to the delight of seeing this poetically regal chapel.

John, King of France, taken at Crécy, David II. of Scotland, captured at Neville's Cross, were prisoners of state at Windsor, and were probably immured in the King John's tower; but the romance of imprisonment in the castle centres round two other figures, to which it seems worth while to devote some little space.

Two romances of chivalry and captivity are intimately connected with Windsor. One is that of a king, the other that of an earl. The king is James I. of Scotland, the earl is Surrey. After the murder, by starvation, of his eldest son, the Duke of Rothsay, Robert III. was minded to save and to educate his second son, James, by sending the youth to France. The Scottish ship was captured by English vessels off Flamborough Head, and the young prince was taken prisoner. This occurred on the 13th of March, 1405. King Henry said, "his father was sending him to learn French. By my troth! he might as well have sent him to me. I am myself an excellent French scholar, and will see to his instruction."

And so began a gentle and generous captivity, which was certainly of advantage to the poet king. The prince was provided with masters, and had every luxury and indulgence. James was trained in all arts and arms, became a scholar and a cavalier, and benefited by contact with culture and civilisation.

While at Windsor, love came to James in a shape of singular romance and charm, and he lived actually the adventure which Chaucer had devised for his Palamon and Arcite. The fair Emilie was doing observance to May, and so--

"She romid up and down, and as she liste She gathrith flouris party white and rede, To make a sotill garlande for her hede; And as an aungel hevynly she song."

The "grete Tour, that was so thik and strong" was, we hear, "evyne joynaunt to the gardyn wall;" and Emilie was walking and singing in the garden, while the imprisoned Palamon gazed from his high dungeon window in the tower,

"And so befell by aventure or caas, That through a window, thik of many a bar Of iron grete, and square as any spar, He cast his eyin on Emilia; And therewithall he blent, and cryid A! As though he stongin were unto the herte."

Then Arcite gazes from the same window--

"And with that sight her beauty hurt him so, That, if that Palamon was wounded sore, Arcit was hurt as much as he, or more."

So far a royal poet's fancy. Now take a kingly fact; the fact being also told in song--

"Now there was maid fast by the Touris wall A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set, Ane herbere greene, with wandis long and small Railit about, and so with treeis set Was all the place, and hawthorne hegis knet.

* * * * * *

"And therew^t kest I doun myn eye ageyne, Quhare as I saw walkyng under the toure, Full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne, The fairest or the freschest zoung floure That ever I sawe, methot before that houre, For quhick sodayne abate, anon astert, The blude of all my bodie to my hert.

"And though I stode abaiset tho a lyte, No wonder was; for quhy? my wittes all Were so ouercome wt pleasaunce and delyte, Only through letting of myn eyen fall, That sudaynly my hert became hir thrall For ever, of free wyll; for of menace There was no tokyn in hir suete face."

Then follows a young poet's lovely and rapturous description of the fair vision, who was, indeed, the Lady Jane, or Johanna Beaufort, daughter of John, Earl of Somerset, and granddaughter of John of Gaunt.

Their loves prospered, as they deserved to do, and James married Lady Jane, at Windsor; the hero of Agincourt being then our king. James was crowned King of Scotland in 1424, and the lovely lady that he loved so well was his Queen.

In 1437, at the Abbey of Black Friars at Perth, James, who strove in vain to rule his turbulent and brutal nobles, was murdered by Sir Robert Graham; what time the heroic Catherine Douglas tried to bar the door against murder, and had her fair arm broken, while the brave and loving Queen was wounded by the assassins.

Surely this royal love romance may give us sweet and tender fancies as we gaze upon the gardens and the towers of Royal Windsor. The story is a true Thames episode.

We may glance for a moment at another noble captive in Windsor--at the Earl of Surrey, likewise a poet; and, indeed, the poet who was the first writer of English blank verse. Impetuous of temper, heady of will, the gallant Surrey developed a lawless ambition which, on the 21st of January, 1547, led him to the Tower block. He was, says Mr. Robert Bell, "formed out of the best elements of the age, and combined more happily, and with a purer lustre than any of his contemporaries, all the attributes of that compound, and, to us, almost fabulous character, in which the noblest qualities of chivalry were blended with the graces of learning and a cultivated taste. It might be said of him that he united in his own person the characteristics of Bayard and of Petrarch;" and yet all these fine qualities led only to the scaffold.

Surrey is connected with Windsor because he was educated and spent his youth there, together with the Duke of Richmond, base son of Henry VIII., who married Surrey's sister; and, further, because, in his day of misfortune, he became a sad prisoner in the castle in which he had spent so many joyous youthful days. Surrey was contracted when he was sixteen, and was only twenty when he became a father. He married, in 1535, the Lady Frances Vere, daughter of John, Earl of Oxford; but romance links his name for ever with that of the fair Geraldine, who was the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, ninth Earl of Kildare, and of Margaret, daughter of Thomas Gray, Marquis of Dorset.

Geraldine, when Surrey died at the age of thirty, was but nineteen years of age. It was the fashion of that day for gallants to wear the sleeve of a mistress of the imagination; and Surrey's passion for the fair young girl was probably fantastic and partly feigned. The fair child was an adopted ideal of a knightly poet's passion. In the only one of Surrey's poems in which he speaks openly of her, he says:--

"From Tuscane came my lady's worthy race; Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat. The western isle whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat. Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast: Her sire an earl; her dame of prince's blood. From tender years, in Britain doth she rest, With kinges child; when she tasteth costly food. Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen; Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight. Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine; Windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight. Her beauty of kind; her virtues from above; Happy is he that can obtain her love!"

The Lady Elizabeth was one of the ladies in attendance on Mary Tudor, and Surrey probably went with the Duke of Richmond to Hunsdon, there to visit the Lady Mary; and on that visit he first saw Geraldine. Later, when a captive, Surrey sings--

"So cruell prison howe could betide, alas, As proude Windsor, where I in lust and joye, With a kinges son my chyldysh years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's sonnes of Troy."

The contrast was indeed cruel between Windsor as a palace and Windsor as a prison. Scott, like a true poet, lays hold of the romance of Surrey's reputed love for Geraldine, and entrusts to "Fitztraver of the Silver Song" that almost matchless ballad which tells how the wise Cornelius, across the ocean grim, showed to the gallant Surrey the vision of the peerless Geraldine. Who, asks Walter Scott--

"Who has not heard of Surrey's fame? His was the hero's soul of fire, And his the bard's immortal name, And his was love, exalted high By all the glow of chivalry."

Our fancies are stirred, as we gaze on proud Windsor, by the thought of Surrey.

What a view it is from the round and regal tower, over which, when our loved and honoured Queen is in state residence, floats our "glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride!" Let us mount with our artist to the summit of the keep. The view is wide and winsome. Surely earth has not many things to show more fair, though the prospect is distinguished rather for soft beauty and placid loveliness than for grandeur or for wildness. I have stood on the summits of Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, and of many another Alpine peak, and know well that there are outlooks in nature more sublime, more austere, more soul-stirring; but yet this English landscape (which includes twelve fair counties), so peaceful, soft, and smiling, has its own distinctive charm. The bright river, gleaming in sunlight, winds and stretches far through all the calm scene. There stand stately English trees; and the view includes broad green meadows, hedgerows, low, gentle hills in the far purple distance. It is a typical English landscape scene; and then over all there is to-day the splendour of a serene summer sky, and the glory of fantastic, sunlit cloud masses.

I took a great interest in finding out the exact sites of the imprisonment of those two noble and romantic captives who suffered imprisonment here. Kings John and David were, as we have seen, probably immured in the King John's tower, which is a prison. The Round Tower, as Mr. Holmes points out, never was a prison, though a wooden pillar is (if you ask for it) absurdly shown as the one to which Prince James was chained. The prince chained! Why, his was an honourable and a most gentle captivity. He was rather guest and pupil than prisoner; and Mr. Holmes leads, with no uncertain step, to a chamber (now used as a bedroom) in the second floor of Edward III.'s tower, which was the room of the prince, and in which is still the window from which the poet-prince looked into the garden--not now existing in its former state--and saw the Lady Jane. This point may be considered as set at rest: and it is very pleasant to be able to identify James's chamber, to look out of his window, and to see, with the eye of imagination, the fair sight that he saw in the garden beneath. Of the place of Surrey's captivity no record or tradition remains, but the ambitious earl, who strained after the crown, was surely held in more rigid confinement than was James. Surrey was possibly immured in the King John tower. And now we leave the castle; but before we quit Windsor we will stroll into the park, and try to summon up some fair fancies connected with Shakspeare and with Elizabeth.

It is a charming legend--even if it be only a legend--which tells us that Queen Elizabeth (_El Iza Beata_) when at Windsor, commanded Shakspeare to write a play in which Falstaff would be shown in love--that is, in such "love" as he was capable of--and that the result of the royal order was the _Merry Wives_, surely the most genial, and the fullest of human humours, of all comedies. It seems certain that the first version of this "most pleasaunt and excellent conceited comedie" was written very rapidly, because the second version is so much longer, and differs so widely from the earlier play. In consequence of the prevalence of the Plague in London, the Court, in 1593, lay long at Windsor, and there can be little doubt that the first version of the play was commissioned and acted at Windsor in that year. It is a delightful theme for the imagination to picture a sunny morning on which the royal cavalcade rode through Windsor Park. Essex and Southampton were there; and Shakspeare, no doubt, rode, for a time at least, by the bridle of great Elizabeth. The words then spoken between queen and poet we cannot recall; but as we read the lovable _Merry Wives_, we enjoy some of the results of the conversation. So genial is the comedy that even Sir John's base humours do not excite moral indignation. He fails so hugely. Beaten, baffled, and befooled, the merry but honest wives have the laugh of him, and we feel the spirit of the pleasant jest when Mrs. Page proposes to

"Laugh this sport o'er by a country fire; Sir John and all."

We fill in fancy some street in Windsor with those quaint old gabled houses, set in fair gardens, in one of which Master Page, in another Master Ford, lived; and can reconstruct the "Garter" Inn;[5] we see the fields near Windsor in which the mock duel does not come off, and we can imagine to ourselves the farmhouse near Frogmore at which pretty Mistress Anne Page was feasting. We can follow the basket of washing to the "whitsters in Datchet Mead," and can almost recognise the muddy ditch by the Thames into which the unchaste knight was thrown. As regards the question whether the date of the play be the time of the wild Prince and Poins, or the contemporary day of great Elizabeth, one little passage makes the point clear. When Falstaff wants to use the chimney as a hiding-place, Mrs. Page says, that they always use to discharge their birding-pieces up the chimney. Now, in the days of Henry IV., there were no "birding-pieces," while the part country gentleman, part opulent burgher of Elizabeth's time, especially in such a place as Windsor, would possess a fowling-piece. The old characters of Pistol, Bardolph, Nym, are only used because they seem to be the natural hangers-on of Falstaff; and we may safely assume that we are reading, or seeing, a comedy of manners belonging to Shakspeare's own day.

Did the Queen, Shakspeare, and the Court ride by that oak of Herne the hunter, who was

"Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest"?

Round that oak, in Windsor Park, occurred the last revenge of the merry wives, after which foul old Sir John is bidden to

"Serve God, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you."

We may enjoy a most delightful time of fair fancies in Windsor forest while we think of those

"Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call'd to enact My present fancies;"

and the charming crowd of characters in the dear _Merry Wives_ fade like an insubstantial vision, as we unwillingly leave our ramble in the park, and saunter down, with imaginations sweetly and subtly stirred, to our waiting boat. It is good to leave Windsor with minds filled with creations of our Shakspeare in his sweetest and his gentlest mood.

/H. Schütz Wilson/.