The first is Guy’s Tower, one hundred and twenty-eight feet high, and has walls ten feet thick—jest think on’t! the walls further acrost than our best bedroom.
Then there is Cæsar’s Tower, eight hundred years old and one hundred and fifty feet high, and between these towers the gray, strong old castle walls, with slits in ’em for the bowmen to shoot their arrers out of, and portcullises and old moat, showin’ that the castle in its young days had everything for its comfort and defence. Enterin’ one of the arched gateways in the wall, you find yourself on the velvet grass and amongst the stately old trees of a spacious courtyard, with the ivy-covered walls and towers and battlements risin’ on every side of it.
We walked round up on them walls—clumb up into Guy’s Tower and looked off on a glorious landscape, as beautiful as any picter, and went down below Cæsar’s Tower into some dungeons; gloomy places of sorrer, filled even now with the atmosphere of pain and agonized memories.
The great hall, sixty-two feet by forty, with oak ceilin’ and walls darkened by time and covered with carvin’s, has firearms of all kinds, and splendid armor of all ages—English crossbows, wicked-lookin’ Italian rapiers, weepons of all kinds inlaid with gold and silver in the most elegant workmanship.
We see Prince Rupert’s armor, Cromwell’s helmet, a gun from the battlefield of Marston Moor. And, in fact, all round you you see the most elegant and curous curosities, and can look down the hull length of the grand apartments that open into each other, a length of three hundred and thirty feet—the red drawin’-room, the gilt drawin’-room, the cedar drawin’-room, etc., etc.
At the end of a little hall leadin’ from the great hall I see the noted picter of Charles 1st on horseback, with one hand on his side.
I declare, it actually seemed as if he wuz a-goin’ to ride right in here amongst us, it wuz so perfectly nateral. It wuz painted by Vandyke. I don’t see how Vandyke ever done it—I couldn’t.
The apartments are all furnished beautiful—beautiful. Cabinets, bronzes, exquisite old china, magnificent anteek furniture, and the most rare and beautiful picters are on every side—by Rubens, Sir Peter Lely, Hans Holbein, Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt, Vandyke, Guido, Andrea del Sarto, Teniers, Murillo, Paul Veronese. And beautiful marble busts by Chantrey, Powers, etc. There wuz a lovely table that once wuz owned by Marie Antoinette. And others had rarest vases on ’em, and wonderful enamelled work of glass and china, with raised figgers on ’em, made by floatin’ the metals in glass; nobody in the world knows now how to make ’em. One dish we see wuz worth one thousand pounds.
As I see this I nudged Josiah, and sez I, “When you think of what this dish is worth, hain’t you ashamed of standin’ out about that plate?” And he said—
“It wuz the sperit of the thing I looked at, mixin’ Shakespeare up with vittles; though,” sez he, “I would gladly eat now offen a angel or a seraphin; why,” sez he, “St. Peter himself wouldn’t dant me.”