That door passed, we were in the waiting-room; and soon our turn came, and that of about a dozen others, to make a tour of the place. Certain rooms only are open to visitors. A portion of the structure is devoted to the private uses of the Queen and the royal family; but the reception-room, banquet-hall, and many semi-private rooms, most elegantly furnished, are open to visitors, and the articles exhibited are many of them of great value, having belonged to former kings and queens. The guide passes through these rooms with his company, explaining, as he passes, that this room is used for such a purpose, or was occupied as a sleeping-room by King So-and-So, or his queen, and that the furniture is now precisely as it was at the time of their death.
All is very interesting. But never is the situation or fact fully comprehended. To enjoy the sights and be entertained in these royal apartments, once so very private, and into which no common visitor was permitted to enter, is one thing; but to realize the great fact is another. How strange that these domicils of kings, and of the high blue-blood of the great realm of England, should come to be museums, gratifying the curiosity of American republicans, the very antipodes of all that is royal or monarchical.
After a very pleasant stay inside the buildings, we take a look at the exterior and the grounds. The latter, so far as seen by the visit we made, were simply bare, macadamized squares, but just outside the walls, on the other sides, are the great and elegant park-grounds, arenas, gardens, ponds, waterfalls, fountains, fine old tree-shaded walks; and every production that brain can devise or wealth procure has been lavished on these acres. The building called Windsor Castle is a vast deal more than a single edifice; and so, in considering it, let not that mistake be made. It is composed of many parts, or portions, with large open courts, or squares, wholly or partially surrounded by the buildings. The latter are quite irregular in outline, and none of them are very high; but there are a plenty of square and round towers of different sizes, with battlements around their tops, of castle-like finish, and a variety of windows, to give it the castle look. If any mistake was made by us in advance, it was to anticipate too compact a building, and not enough of great extent,—one too old and ancient in appearance, and of too high an elevation. From the rise of ground on which the castle stands, the whole is conspicuous from many points on the railway, for miles distant; and the view of the granite-like colored structure—clean, large in extent, very irregular in outline of upper part as seen from these points, the whole beautifully embosomed in thick foliage of trees—presents a charming effect. When the Queen is present, which is for a few weeks at a time at intervals, a large flag floats from the top of the great tower, and that is evidence of her royal presence.
We pass out of the great gate and are again in a seemingly republican street, and things resume an American aspect and appearance. Another dreamish condition we have been in, and now seem back on the substantial ground of common humanity and, we may add, common sense. We breathe freer, and as we think the whole scheme over, of the work doing by John Bright, by Gladstone, and a host of others,—when we remember that now for the first time in English history all of the people, think, talk, and act,—we know the outcome will be good and an advance be made.
Having been alternately filled with admiration and disgust,—with indescribable charm and wonder, and with grand anticipations of the good time coming,—we say "Another dream-day has come and is passing," and we reluctantly move on and ruthlessly tear ourselves away from these bewitching conditions and contemplations; and now at 3 p. m. are ready for a visit to the famed Stoke Poges. Ever memorable, and to all coming time it will be, as the spot made classic by Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard."
At 3.30 p. m. we leave the castle gate, and negotiate for our team to Stoke Poges, a place of very uneuphonious name, but classic and known the civilized world over. Teams for hire are in abundance, and are with their drivers in waiting for employment. The appearance of a stranger, especially if an American, is a signal for an attack. We had long since learned the art of management of a case of the kind at Montreal and Quebec in our own country, and the flank movement is to appear to be in want of anything but a team. One must work up alongside the boundary line of fact and truth; and the tendency is to at times cross it and get over on the other side. When taking most notice, and doing best work of selecting, the Yankee, to appearance, never did hire a team, and never will. To make the story short we will say that without a beating down as regards price, but to accommodate the driver, who was spoiling to carry us for $3.00,—when at first he, with all his fellows, made a mistake, and asked $5.00,—we were at length seated in his team; and, while the army of other drivers were retiring crestfallen, were being trundled in the heavy English top-buggy, top turned back, and were being grandly transported through the pretty streets of Windsor, out among the fine gardens, and half-metropolitan, half-suburban scenery, on our way to Stoke.
Never will be forgotten that inspiring ride, for all the way it was through charming scenery. At times over broad thoroughfares, in which the refinement of a high civilization had for 500 years concentrated; then into narrow lanes finely hedged on their sides, shaded by grand old elms and ever-fragrant lindens, sweet in their good foliage and new blossoms; and so on and on—new scenes charming, the clear air invigorating, thoughts of Old England inspiring—we, after the ride of three miles, are at one of the great seats of academical education—the famed Eton School, as well known, and for centuries it has been, as any college at Cambridge or Oxford. This, and that at Newstead Abbey, the old London St. Paul's, the Blue-Coat School, and the Westminster one, are a part of England's history and are as renowned as the soil itself. What a charm there is to the story of Eton and Rugby! The grounds are ample, well laid out, and contain fine old trees and shrubbery,—few or no houses encroaching, or in the neighborhood; the whole territory has a very retired and rural appearance. There is nothing however of the very antique or ancient look such as we anticipated. As a whole, all was to us, with our pre-conceived idea, too modern and new. The buildings are of brick. They are somewhat broken in outline and design, but suggested a factory-like appearance. How many poets, philosophers, and men in all the learned walks of life here fitted for the great universities! How very renowned and sacredly classic are these grounds! We would stop by the way and enumerate, but must forbear and pass on to the more immediate object of our tour; for off in the distance, charmingly embowered in trees, is the sharp-pointed spire of the poetically immortalized church, resting on its "ivy-mantled tower." The spire is built of a whitish stone and is very sharply pointed. How alluring and attractive it is, how entrancing is the thought that about it, and so near us, is the "yew tree's shade," of which the pensive poet speaks!
We ride on, and pass down into the old lane leading to Lord Taunton's park; we go into his carriage-path, and how charming the finish of everything, and what sublime repose! We pass along and arrive on our left at a pleasant, homelike cottage, with a neatly kept yard in front. How familiar the scene! Honest old hollyhocks, delicate petunias, gorgeous marigolds, sweet mignonette, and such things as are intensely American, and countryish at that, are in profusion. The arrival of a team—and many come every day—is the signal for a buxom, rosy-cheeked damsel to come out of the cottage and open the gate. No remarks by her. She does not comprehend the scheme. All is mechanically done, and is a result of usage and every-day life. If she thinks at all, it is to wonder why the visitors come. A lesser thing never comprehends a greater. To her, as to any one without a proper standard, as Wordsworth said,—
A primrose by a river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.