Castles in process of time, soon became of little use as fortresses; the change in the art of war, brought about by the invention of gunpowder, the influence of our navy, and the abolishment of the feudal system, all tended to diminish the importance of these ancient safeguards; and, with the progress of civilization and national improvement, we trace the gradual change in the construction of castles, till, by the admission of light and air, and some degree of ornament, the harsh and gloomy features of the massive Norman pile became softened down into the refined and comfortable aspect of the castellated house in the reign of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth.
In the reign of Charles I., however, shortly before the civil war, and probably with the prospects of the awful events which followed in view, a commission was appointed to inquire into the state of the ancient castles. Many of these, during the subsequent troubles, were garrisoned and defended. Not a few were afterwards destroyed by order of the parliament, and others were left to the ravages of time and the weather. Some of these monuments of barbaric grandeur have been torn down for the sake of the materials, or for the purpose of building on the same site.
Although a view of the generality of these rugged fortresses—destined chiefly for the purposes of war or defence—suggests to the imagination, dungeons, chains, and a painful assemblage of horrors, yet some of them were often the scenes of magnificence and hospitality, where, in the days of chivalry, the wandering Knight or distressed Princess found honourable reception, the holy Palmer repose for his wearied limbs, and the poor and helpless men daily bread.
Having here given a general description of Castles, I shall, in a future chapter, afford my young readers accounts of some particular Castles, especially those which have historical incidents connected with them.
The Queen of Spithead: Review of the Fleet.
Peter Parley loves our good Queen, and delights to follow her in her various “progresses”—for wherever she appears, light and happiness beams around. The sun seems to welcome her wherever she goes, and bright and fair are the days that belong to her. And one of the brightest and fairest days, notwithstanding a little cloud or so that appeared, was the day when Her Majesty, accompanied by the Prince—whom every true Briton loves for his manly character, and for the good he does to every one—proceeded to visit the British Fleet at Spithead. It was delightful for old Peter to behold the Queen and the Prince, and not less so to see the young Prince of Wales emulating the British Tar, and looking like an embryo Nelson: and his heart beat with ardour at the cheers of the sailors and the booming of the guns; and he wished himself a young man again, and on board of a man-of-war, as he was for many years of his early life. I believe that no one who has been thoroughly soused in salt water ever ceases to love it, and although poor old Peter has now only a pleasure-boat to skull and row and sail about the Deben in, he still loves the sea-breeze and the sea-water, and the smell of tar; and he likes to hear the whistle of the gale in the shrouds, and the cry of the sea-gull, and the voice of the curlew on the ooze; and he would sing with his poor old voice, like a shattered clarionet of former days, “Rule Britannia,” and thank God that he has lived to see the day when England exhibits to the world that she is still able to “rule the waves.”
The Queen at Spithead