“I was just going to ask you if you knew,” with an extremely patronizing air, which Donald noticed, but was quite too courteous to resent.
“It is called that because Albert was the name of the Queen's husband, the Prince Consort, and after his death the Queen built it to his memory. No, she didn't exactly build it, either. There was a king built it long ago for his tomb, and it has quite a history, I believe; but it was the Queen who made it beautiful as it is now. And underneath is a great big tomb, where ever so many royal people are buried—kings and queens and princes and princesses.”
“Is Prince Albert buried there?”
“No; I was going to tell you he is buried in a mausoleum (very proud of the word) at Frogmore, just beyond the Long Walk, as they call it, where we drove you, you remember, day before yesterday.”
“Well, I guess I shall always remember it; I never saw anything so lovely in my life. It looked just like a picture they used to have in a book called 'Pilgrim's Progress at the hospital.” Impatient of the interruption, Marie-Celeste shook her head, as much as to say, “Oh, yes, of course anybody knows about 'Pilgrim's Progress;'” but Donald, stopping merely to catch his breath, continued: “The name under it was Beulah Land, and it meant a sort of heaven; and the Long Walk looked to me as though it might be a straight road to Beulah Land.” And older people than Donald have thought the selfsame thing, as they have looked down the same matchless avenue, with its wonderful far-reaching vista of branching elms, and its perfect driveway diminishing to a thread in the distance, with here and there a flock of grazing sheep roaming its ample grass-grown borders, and finding rich and abundant pasture.
“Yes, it does look like that,” said Marie-Celeste, merely by way of politeness, and then at once resumed eagerly: “But although the Prince is not really buried in the chapel, there's a beautiful tomb to his memory right in front of the chancel. You must surely see it some day, Donald. The figure of the Prince lies right along the top of it, and he has on wonderful armor, and at his feet is a carved statue of his favorite hound. I think it was fine in them to put it there, don't you? It seems as though faithful dogs ought to be remembered just as well as people. Then there's another beautiful tomb to Prince Leopold. He is really buried there, and he—but I suppose you'll be more interested in the castle even than in the chapel.” and as Donald looked as though he thought he might, and as that was exactly the way he was expected to look, Marie-Celeste complacently continued: “Well, first you go up a flight of steps, and you find yourself in a sort of vestibule; and there's a splendid portrait of the architect there—the man who restored the old parts of the castle and added new parts to it and made it all beautiful as it is now; and from this vestibule you go on and on from one grand room to another. They call them the State Apartments; and they are stately, I can tell you, and some of them have very high-sounding names that I cannot remember. There are wonderful tapestries on the walls—pictures made in a loom somehow—and portraits everywhere of royal people. Then there's a room they call the Guard Room, where they have suits of ancient armor; and there's a great oak writing-table in it made from the wood of the old Arctic ship Resolute; and it tells in an inscription on it how she was abandoned by the English, and how she was found by an American whaling-ship captain three years afterwards, who got her free from the ice. And after that the American Government fitted her out and gave her to Her Majesty Queen Victoria as a token of friendship; and then, when she was broken up, a few years ago, they made the table out of the wood. Then there's a chair besides, that's made from an elm-tree that grew where the English beat Napoleon on the field of Waterloo; and in another part of the room, on a piece of a mast, there's a great colossal bust of Lord Nelson; and I'm ashamed to say I don't know anything about him, but we ought to, Donald.”
“And what's more, we do,” interrupted Donald, with a little mischievous smile of satisfaction; “I guess you can't find a sailor boy on land or sea too young to know about Lord Nelson. If you'd ever been to London you'd know something about him yourself, for one of the grandest squares there is called after the great battle he won at Trafalgar, and there's an ever-so-high column in the centre of it, with a statue of Lord Nelson on top of it. Oh, you ought to see Trafalgar Square, I can tell you!”
“And I shall, of course. No one would come to England without going up to London, would they? But I think you have told me very little about Lord Nelson for Marie-Celeste was somewhat suspicious of Donald's ability in that direction. She soon found to her sorrow, however, that she was mistaken: for Donald forthwith launched forth into such a detailed account of Lord Nelson's history, from his voyage as a boy to the North Pole, to his last great, glorious battle, that the patience of that young lady, who was rather more eager at all times to impart information than to receive it, was sorely tried. Donald, nevertheless, was greatly advanced thereby in her estimation, since it seemed that marvellous ignorance in one direction was unquestionably offset by an astonishing amount of information in another.
“Well, I am rather glad to know about him,” said Marie-Celeste at the first opportunity; “and now I'll go on with the castle, shall I?” And Donald, somewhat exhausted by his efforts, was altogether willing that she should.
“Let me see! Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember—the Guard Room. Well, the next room to that is the Banqueting all, a wonderful, great, big place, and the ceiling is covered with the crests of the Knights of the Garter. Do you know anything about the Knights of the Garter, Donald?”