Chapter IV: Part 4

The castle built by Louis XII. now stands on the spot where the second enclosure began. Access to the latter was gained by a drawbridge thrown across a moat between two strong towers. Close to this bridge was a narrow passage communicating with the covered way called the Vault of the Castle, which has lately disappeared and which led to the _Place des Jésuites_. It would be rash to pretend exactly to reconstruct the physiognomy which this second enclosure presented in the Twelfth or Thirteenth Century. The buildings of the background, vast edifices raised by the Counts of Blois, of the house of Châtillon, have completely disappeared and are only visible to-day in the drawings of de Cerceau. It is on the site of these buildings that Gaston d’Orléans raised, about 1635, the cold and regular building that bears his name.

It was between the thick walls of this hall and the no less thick walls of the _Tour des Moulins_ that Francis the First wedged his _château_ in. If we leave the Hall of the Estates, deferring till a little later a visit to the elegant edifice of that prince, and go immediately to the tower that terminates it and connects the _château_ of Francis the First with that of Gaston of Orleans, we shall have traversed all that now remains standing of the ancient strong castle of the Counts of Blois.

The _château_ built by Francis the First, by the abundance and variety of its ornamentation, crushes the simple abode of Louis XII. Beside this strong and severe building it produces the effect of a young bride covered with laces beside the rich but serious and durable robe of her grandmother.

It was Louis XII., however, who laid the foundations of Francis the First’s wing. But these foundations had scarcely risen above the ground when he died. The plan adopted at that time only required one façade,--that of the courtyard. Francis the First had another building joined to the original one. When the addition was made, the strong partition-wall that terminated the first building and to-day separates the two sides of the edifice was already far advanced, so that it was necessary to pierce it with doorways that now allow us to appreciate its thickness. We are told that three years sufficed for the young victor of Marignan to carry this enterprise to the point at which we see it to-day. The king’s plan was to add two other wings to the castle that would thus have formed a perfect square. But Francis the First lacked the money necessary for the execution of this colossal plan, as Louis XIV. did afterwards for Versailles. The Field of the Cloth of Gold and the Italian war had exhausted his resources. During the years that followed, the many catastrophes that overwhelmed France--the loss of Milan, the death of Bayard, the battle of Pavia, and finally the captivity in Madrid,--destroyed Francis’s passion for building,--that love of the square and trowel that was common to him and all the great sovereigns of our country. When he returned from captivity, in 1526, with his head full of fairy-like Arab and Moorish constructions, he was already dreaming of Chambord, and neglected Blois, in which, however, had been gathered the money for his ransom. The grand project, conceived in 1516, was therefore abandoned, and the unfinished castle of Blois remained as we see it to-day,--a curious and incoherent assemblage of monuments of divers styles and periods.

We have heard nothing about the _château_ built by Gaston of Orleans, not that that edifice is without merit, but its cold regularity disagreeably contrasts with the Renaissance architecture, so sparkling and prodigal of caprice. It was for the purpose of completing that correct and wearisome monument that Gaston wanted to destroy what remains of Francis the First’s wing. He would gladly have said, like Louis XIV.: “Remove those grotesque piles.” For it is a singular fact that at that time good taste joined in the same condemnation the Middle Ages, whose wonders were considered barbarous, and the Renaissance which had led the arts back to the purer forms of antiquity. With bare stones and straight lines throughout, yet there was something of the majestic gravity of Louis XIV. in the work of his uncle Gaston. In order that the straight line may produce great effects it must be developed over the immense surface of a Louvre or a Versailles. At Blois it is only insignificant. This château would serve for anything,--a museum, a library, or a tribunal, just as well as the abode of a prince. In 1823, it had a narrow escape of becoming a prefecture. They were going to pull down what they called the shanties of Louis XII. and substitute a fine iron grille for them. Francis the First’s wing found grace in the eyes of the destroyers on condition of sheltering the household: the kitchens had to be placed somewhere! It is true that this happened in 1823, only a few years after the Empire.

The work of a period of transition, when tranquillity was succeeding agitation, this palace of the chief of the Fronde does not possess the serene power and self-confidence that came afterwards, but we already feel something in it of the imposing unity and the majestic ennui of the great reign.

FUTTEHPORE-SIKRI

LOUIS ROUSSELET

The ruins of Futtehpore, the Versailles of the great Akbar, cover the summit of a hill twelve miles from Bhurtpore. On leaving that town, we travelled across a succession of monotonous plains alternately composed of marshes and rocky deserts. The horizon was unbounded, except on the east, where lay the hill of Futtehpore, the fantastic outline of which caught the rays of the rising sun. Even from afar, the eye is struck by the number and size of the buildings, which a royal caprice has erected in the midst of this desert: one would take it for a large and populous city. Those long lines of palaces with their gilded domes and pinnacles could never have been built to be so soon abandoned to solitude. The scene becomes grander the nearer you approach. On arriving at the foot of the hill, the road passes under a majestic gateway, beyond which are the long, silent streets; the palaces still standing perfect and entire amidst the ruined dwellings of the people; with the fountains and the magnificent gardens, wherein the pomegranates and the jessamine have grown for centuries. The whole scene is of imposing grandeur; and the hand of time has fallen so lightly upon it that one might take it for a town very recently deserted by its inhabitants, or one of the enchanted cities of Sinbad the Sailor.

The _bigarri_,[1] whom we had taken with us from the village of Sikri, conducted us to a bungalow which is maintained by the English Government for the accommodation of travellers. This bungalow, which was once the ancient _kutchery_[2] of Akbar, is built of red sandstone, and surrounded by a beautiful verandah supported by columns. It is situated on the northern extremity of the plateau, and overlooks the town on one side and the front of the zenanah on the other. An old Sepoy is placed in charge of the edifice, which contains two comfortably furnished apartments.

The foundations of Futtehpore, “the Town of Victory,” were laid by Akbar in 1571, and the ramparts, city, and palace were all completed with extraordinary rapidity. Akbar was attracted to this desert by the sanctity of a Mussulman Anchorite, Selim Shisti, who inhabited one of the caverns on the hill. Attracted by the situation, he built himself a palace, and finally, being unwilling to give up the society of the holy man, he resolved to establish there the capital of his empire. In a few years this desert spot was transformed into a large and populous city; but the death of Selim soon put an end to this prosperity. Akbar then saw the folly of trying to place his capital in the midst of these sterile plains, unapproached by any of the great rivers, more especially as he possessed the unusually favourable situation of Agra. His resolution was promptly taken. In 1584, he abandoned Futtehpore with all its grandeur, and carried off the whole population to people his new capital of Agra. The evacuation was complete; none of the successors of Akbar cared to carry out his foolish project, and very soon the only inhabitants of Futtehpore were wild animals and a few anchorites. One is almost tempted to think that Akbar built Futtehpore for the sole purpose of giving posterity some idea of his greatness in leaving this monument of his capricious fancy.

The fame of Selim still attracts thousands of pilgrims to his tomb, where they assemble at certain seasons of the year; and, to supply the wants of these devotees, two villages have sprung up on the site of the deserted town, one called Futtehpore, and the other Sikri; and it is by this double appellation of Futtehpore-Sikri that the ruins are generally known. Apart from their beauty, which all must admire, they are of special interest to the archæologist as being the work of a single individual, and therefore a perfect specimen of the style of architecture of his epoch. From their marvellous state of preservation, you can trace, step by step, the mode of life of the great Akbar, and can form a just idea of Indian manners and customs in the Sixteenth Century. Everything still breathes of the magnificence of that Eastern Court the fame of which was carried to Europe by contemporary travellers, whose tales were looked upon as fables, and the wealth and splendour of which excited later the avarice and cupidity of the Western nations.

The tomb of Selim, the imperial palace, and some of the dwellings of the Mogul grandees are almost entire. They form a compact group, one mile in length, which occupies the summit of a hill 180 feet high. This hill furnished the whole of the material of which they are built, which is a fine sandstone, varying from purple to rose colour. The stone has been left unornamented throughout; but the architects have avoided the monotony of the colour by artistically arranging its various tints. The mass is now softened by time; and one of its chief beauties is this mellow colouring, which blends ground and building in one, making the latter appear as though carved out of the peaks of the mountain.

The imperial palace lies to the east of the tomb. It is a vast collection of separate buildings connected by galleries and courtyards, and covering an area at least equal to that occupied by the Louvre and the Tuileries.

The first building you come to on leaving the tomb used to contain the private apartments of the emperor. It now goes by the name of _tapili_, or guard-house, from the fact of its being inhabited by the handful of soldiers who are employed to keep off marauders from the ruins. The palace is built with great simplicity, its exterior being nothing but a blank wall, with a small court in its centre, into which the galleries on the different stories open. On one side is a colonnade, profusely ornamented in the Hindoo style; this was the verandah of the apartment of Akbar’s favourite wife, and the mother of Jehanghir: and at the end of an open space which extends in front of the palace is the _kutchery_, now converted into a bungalow for travellers.

A ruined gallery leads from the _tapili_ to the Imperial zenanah, which is surrounded by a high wall. Each princess was allotted a separate palace in this enclosure, with its own gardens, etc., constructed according to her own taste and wishes. The first of these was the palace of the Queen Mary, a Portuguese lady whom Akbar had espoused; in the apartments of which are numerous frescoes, amongst others one representing the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. It is a matter of surprise to find a Mussulman prince, in the Sixteenth Century, with such tolerant views as to allow in his palace a thing so opposed to the principles of his religion; but it does not astonish one in such an enlightened man as the great Akbar. Wishing to put an end forever to the subjects of discord which divided the nations of his empire, he devised the plan of creating a new religion which should unite the sympathies of all. For this purpose he assembled a general council which was attended by the priests of all the religious denominations of India, and even by some of the Christian missionaries from Goa; and to them he submitted his project: but nothing resulted from the discussion. In spite of this the emperor compiled a voluminous work on the different religions of the world, viz., Christianity, Judaism, Islamism, and the various Hindoo sects, in which he displayed very liberal and enlightened views.

From the palace of Queen Mary you enter a court, surrounded by apartments, and almost entirely occupied by a basin of vast dimensions, in the centre of which is an island built on a terrace, and reached by four stone foot-bridges. At the extremity of this court, there is a pavilion, the walls and pillars of which are enriched with fine sculptures; its rooms overlooking on one side the ornamental tank, and on the other a garden still ornamented with shrubberies and fine trees. This was the abode of one of Akbar’s wives, the Roumi Sultani, daughter of one of the Sultans of Constantinople.

On a high terrace, to the right of this palace, is the emperor’s sleeping-apartment; the ground-floor containing a spacious hall with sculptured columns, which is half filled up with rubbish.

On the west of the zenanah, rises a fanciful construction, called _Pânch Mahal_--“the Five Palaces,”--which consists of four terraces, supported by galleries rising one above another, and gradually diminishing in size towards the top, where they terminate in a dome sustained by four columns. It resembles the half of a pyramid, and has a very curious effect. The thirty-five pillars which support the second terrace are all different, comprising almost every style and some very remarkable specimens of original architecture. It is a valuable architectural collection. There has been much discussion as to the design of the building, since the open galleries could not possibly have been intended for habitation. Its position against the walls of the zenanah, the interior of which it overlooks and communicates with, leads to the supposition that it was assigned to the eunuchs; but in any case it was a fanciful idea of the architect. In the little court which surrounds the _Pânch Mahal_ are some very curious detached buildings for the accommodation of the servants of the harem. The architect evidently wished to give them an appearance most befitting their use; and, as there was no wood at his disposal, he minutely copied in stone those light constructions which serve in the palaces of India as a shelter for the lower servants. The roof, formed of slabs of stone, is carved to imitate thatch, and is supported by the same net-work of beams which would be used for a lighter material than sandstone. In a word, they are sheds built of sculptured stone.

After passing through the galleries of the _Pânch Mahal_, you come out upon the principal court of the palace, called the Court of the Pucheesee; on one side of which are the walls of the zenanah, and on the other the apartments of the ministers and the audience-chambers.

Pucheesee is a game of great antiquity, which the Indians have always been passionately fond of; and it is played with pawns on chess-boards greatly resembling those used in Europe. There are four players, with four pawns apiece; and the moves are regulated by throwing the dice, the object being to get your four pawns into the centre of the board. The game of pucheesee was played by Akbar in a truly regal manner; the court itself, divided into red and white squares, being the board, and an enormous stone, raised on four feet, representing the central point. It was here that Akbar and his courtiers played this game; sixteen young slaves from the harem, wearing the players’ colours, themselves represented the pieces, and moved to the squares according to the throw of the dice. It is said that the emperor took such a fancy to playing the game on this grand scale that he had a court for pucheesee constructed in all his palaces; and traces of such are still visible at Agra[3] and Allahabad.

To the north of this court and on the same side as the _Pânch Mahal_ is a palace, built with great simplicity, and in such a good state of preservation that you might mistake it for a modern building. One wing is a perfect labyrinth of corridors and passages, in which the ladies of the Court amused themselves with their favourite games of “aukh-matchorli,” or blind-man’s-buff, and hide-and-seek; and before it rises a kiosk of Hindoo architecture, called the _Gooroo-ka-Mundil_, “Temple of the Mendicant.” The emperor, in order to show his regard for the religion of the majority of his subjects, entertained at his Court a Gooroo, or religious mendicant of the Saïva sect, and even had this temple built for him and his co-religionists.

A little farther on and facing the zenanah is one of the most beautiful buildings of Futtehpore, consisting of a graceful pavilion of one story, surmounted by four light cupolas. This is the _Dewani-Khas_, or Palace of the Council of State. The simplicity of its outline, its square windows and handsome balcony, remind one of our modern buildings. It is, however, quite in accordance with the character of Akbar, who, as well in architecture as in religion and government, never copied his predecessors. The interior of the _Dewani-Khas_ is a large hall the whole height of the edifice, in the centre of which is an enormous column of red sandstone, which terminates at some distance from the ceiling in a large capital magnificently sculptured. This capital forms a platform, encircled by a light balustrade, from which diverge four stone bridges, leading to four niches in the corners of the building; and a staircase hidden in the wall leads to a secret corridor, which communicates with the niche. It is one of the strangest fancies of the architect of Futtehpore.

On the occasion of a council being assembled, the emperor took his place on the platform, his ministers occupying the niches; while the ambassadors and other personages who were called into their presence remained in the hall at the foot of the column, and were unable to judge of the impression which their communication produced on the council.

A long gallery, partly in ruins, leads from the _Dewani-Khas_ to the _Dewani-Am_, or Palace of the Public Audiences. It is a small building, one side of which overlooks the Court of the Pucheesee, and the other a large court surrounded by colonnades.

The chronicler Aboul Fazel says that at certain hours the people were admitted into this court. After the council the emperor repaired to the _Dewani-Am_, where, after having put on his robes of state, he seated himself on a tribune overlooking the court. Here he remained for some time, inquiring into and redressing the grievances of the people, and receiving the strangers who flocked to his court. According to tradition, it was here that he received the Jesuits of Goa, who brought him the leaves and seeds of tobacco; and it was at Futtehpore that Hakim Aboul Futteh Ghilani, one of Akbar’s physicians, is supposed to have invented the hookah, the pipe of India.

It would take too long to describe every part of this vast palace in detail, for, besides what I have already noticed, there are the baths, the mint, the barracks, and numerous other buildings, all in ruins.

CAERNAVON CASTLE

WILLIAM HOWITT

The castles of Caernavon, Beaumaris, and Conway, all on this north-west coast of Wales, are monuments of the subjection of the Principality by Edward I. Other castles on this coast he took and strengthened, for instance those of Flint and Rhuddlan, as yokes on the necks of the North Welsh; these three he built expressly for that purpose, and, though all now more or less in ruin, they remain splendid evidences of his power, and of the architectural taste of the age. We have no finer specimens of castellated buildings than in the fortresses of Caernavon and Conway, and what remains of the extensive castle of Beaumaris shows what it once was. Even the Welsh, who do not forget the object of their erection, yet regard them with pride. Edward I., a warrior and statesman of the first rank, cherished, as the great purpose of his life, the reduction of the whole of the magnificent island of Great Britain into one compact and noble kingdom. This could not be done without invading the country and constitutions of Wales and Scotland, which had as much right to maintain their own independence, their own laws and customs as England had. But warriors by nature and possession think little of such rights, and readily persuade themselves that the project which aggrandizes their own country sanctifies the most flagrant usurpations, and renders innocent all the bloodshed and the crimes which irresistibly attend such enterprises. At the present day, the general sense of both England and Scotland, if not of Wales, would refuse to pronounce on Edward I. any other verdict than that of a great benefactor to his nation for what he did, and even for what he attempted yet failed in, towards the consolidation of Great Britain under one crown.

Whilst, however, he endeavored to mollify the spirit of the Welsh by the extension to them of civil, social, and commercial advantages, he did not trust by any means to these, but planned the erection of a chain of strong fortresses which should command the north as completely as the south was commanded by the same means. And thus arose, with others, the three princely strongholds of Conway, Beaumaris, and Caernavon.

The Castle of Conway seems to have been commenced a couple of years later than Caernavon Castle,--Caernavon being begun immediately on the defeat and death of Llewellyn, that is, in 1282, or in the spring of 1283. Conway was not commenced till the following year, 1284, when, finding that these two castles were not sufficient to keep the Welsh in check, Edward erected the Castle of Beaumaris in 1295. There is a great resemblance in the style of the two castles of Conway and Beaumaris--they have round towers; whilst Caernavon has octagonal, hexagonal, and pentagonal ones.

The Castle of Caernavon, which is the one now engaging our attention, differs greatly from these other two; and if not more striking in appearance than that of Conway,--than which Pennant says “one more beautiful never arose,”--it is equal in grandeur, and has, in truth, a royal and more stately air. Its situation is very fine; for, though it stands in the not very splendid town of Caernavon, it is placed on the shore of the Menai Straits; and, looked down upon from a rocky eminence called Fort Hill, a good view is obtained of it and the town, of Menai Straits, the opposite shore of Anglesea, with the distant summits of the Holyhead and Parys hills, the blue peaks of the Eiflridge, in the promontory of Lleyn, the group of mountains surrounding Snowdon, and on a clear day the far off heights of Wicklow in Ireland. The architect employed by Edward I., in its erection, was Henry Ellerton, or de Elreton; and, according to tradition, many of the materials were brought from Segontium, or the old Caernavon, and much of the limestone of which it is built came from Twr-Celyn, in Anglesea; and of the gritstone from Vaenol, in the county of Caernavon; the Menai facilitating the carriage from both places.

The foundations of this castle are surrounded on three sides by water. It is bounded on one side by the Menai Straits, on another by the estuary of the Seoint, the river which runs hither from the Lake of Llanberis. As you approach the castle, its walls and towers have an air of lightness, which deceives you completely as to its strength, for these walls are immensely thick and strong. The doorways in the gateway towers and the windows are more lofty and graceful than the doors and windows generally in castles of that age. The walls enclose an area of about three acres, and are themselves from seven to nine feet thick. They have within them each a gallery, with slips for the discharge of arrows, and are flanked by thirteen towers, all angular, but differing in the number of their angles. The very massive pentagonal tower, called the Eagle Tower, guards the south of the Seoint, and is so called from a now shapeless figure of that bird, said to have been brought from the ruins of the neighbouring Roman station of Segontium, but probably placed there simply as being one of Edward I.’s crests. This majestic tower has three turrets, and its battlements display a mutilated series of armour heads of the time of Edward II. This tower is the only one of which the staircase remains perfect, and by 158 stone steps you may ascend to the summit, and obtain a splendid view thence over the straits, the town, and the surrounding country. In the lower part of this tower is shown a small, dark room, measuring twelve feet by eight feet, in which Edward II. was born. That unfortunate prince was most probably born in the castle; but it has been endeavoured to be shown that it could not possibly be in this tower, as it would appear not to have been built for some years afterwards, and, indeed, only to have been finished by Edward II. after he became king of England. The Rev. C. H. Hartshorne, of Cogenhoe, in Northamptonshire, asserted at the annual meeting of the Cambrian Archæological Society, held in Caernavon in September, 1848, that this castle, instead of being built, as Pennant and others represent, in about two years, was not completed in less than thirty-eight years--that it was begun in 1284, and only completed in 1322.

As Edward first entered the town of Caernavon on the 1st of April, 1284, and his son was born on the 25th of the same month, twenty-four days only are left for the building of the Eagle Tower, which would be work, not for English or Welsh builders, but for the Afrits of the _Arabian Nights_, and would seem to put an end to the whole tradition of Edward of Caernavon having been born in the room assigned him by popular affection. And yet tradition so often maintains itself against statistics, and against theories started long afterwards, that we should not be surprised if, after all, the first Prince of Wales was actually born in that little, dismal room. In the then disturbed condition of North Wales; amid the intense indignation of the Welsh at the murder of their beloved prince, and the barbarous execution of his brother David; under the well-known spirit of revolt and revenge which was fiercely fermenting in the minds of the natives, it is not likely that Edward would risk the safety of his wife and his infant in the open town. No doubt he had ordered the erection of a stronghold here immediately on the fall of Llewellyn. This was in the autumn of 1282, and Edward was born, it is said, in the Castle of Caernavon, on the 25th of April, 1284. Here was a good part of two years in which a strong building might have been raised sufficient for a stout defence: and this is probably what is meant when it is said by the historians that Edward commenced this castle in A. D. 1282–3, and completed it in two or three years. It is most probable that he did commence and complete such a castle as answered his immediate purpose, and that in this Castle his son Edward was born; that Edward I., however, contemplated and erected a much larger and more imposing castle on the spot--the present structure; and that he caused the part in which his son’s birth took place to be incased in the larger building, and that it forms an internal part of the present Eagle Tower, just as the poet Thomson’s cottage at Richmond now forms a portion of the larger villa of the Earl of Shaftesbury. It may be remarked that there is no appearance of any different masonry on the exterior of this part of the Eagle Tower. Of course not. The architect would new-front that part in uniformity with the rest; but that need not in the least disturb the existence of this room.

That is our opinion of the real fact; and it is the one which at once reconciles the tradition and the proofs that the present splendid fabric was not completed in two years, but in two reigns. All Mr. Hartshorne’s statistical facts may be fully admitted, and the tradition of the place remain untouched. We ourselves have just as much, or rather more, faith in tradition, than in statistics; for, in scores of cases, tradition has asserted itself successfully against apparent facts, and, in scores of cases, statistics have proved very delusive. That Edward I. would be very sure to preserve the _locale_ of his son’s birth, and that the Welsh would vividly retain a knowledge of it, may be inferred from the part which Edward meant to play with his son, and the delusive hope which his plan excited in the minds of the Welsh. He presented this infant son to them, and told them that they should have a native Welshman for their prince. As Alphonso, Edward’s eldest son, was still living, the Welsh, in their ardent patriotism, fondly jumped to the idea that they would have their own principality under a prince of their own. Alphonso died, Edward of Caernavon became King of England, and that hope was at once sternly quenched. Under such circumstances, the Welsh were not likely to forget the spot where the prince on whom such hopes were hinged first saw the light. We may, therefore, without much chance of mistake, accept at once the facts that Edward II. was born in this very tower, and yet that the Eagle Tower was not completed till the tenth year of the second Edward’s reign.

The main gateway of the Castle is flanked by lofty towers of vast strength. Over the grand entrance arch stands, in a niche, a mutilated statue of Edward I., with his hand upon a half-drawn sword, as if to intimate that he was equally prepared to pluck it forth on any menace of resistance, or to sheathe it at the desire for peace. In the archway beneath are grooves for four portcullises. The entrance on the east side is called the Queen’s Gate, because Eleanor is said by tradition to have entered the Castle by it. On passing into the interior you observe the traces, on the two opposite buildings, of a partition wall having formerly divided it into two courts. Much of the interior is cleared away, leaving exposed one of the fine corridors, which led from one part of the castle to another. On the south-east side is some modern building, which has been raised within the old walls. Several of the dungeons are yet visible; and in one of these was confined, in the reign of Charles I., the celebrated William Prynne.

No more zealous, fiery, and yet honest spirit, certainly was ever confined here than Prynne. He was at once a lawyer of Lincoln’s Inn, and a determined Puritan. His famous _Histriomastix, or a Scourge for Stage Players_, being supposed to reflect on Henrietta, the Queen of Charles I., who had herself acted in a pastoral at Somerset House, Prynne was prosecuted in the Star Chamber; and his sentence and its rigid execution are a striking proof of the savage spirit of the age, though it was already in the middle of the Seventeenth Century, namely, in 1634. He was fined £3,000, expelled from the University of Oxford, and the Society of Lincoln’s Inn, degraded from the bar, set in the pillory, both his ears cut off, his book burnt publicly by the hangman, and himself condemned to perpetual imprisonment. But no amount of cruelty could tame that daring soul. Whilst still imprisoned in the Tower, and after three years’ durance, he launched forth another book, reflecting severely on the hierarchy generally, and particularly on the popish follies and political despotism of Archbishop Laud. For this he was further sentenced by the infamous Star Chamber to be fined £5,000, to be again set in the pillory, to be branded on both cheeks with the letters S and L, for Seditious Libeller, to have the very roots of his ears dug out by the hangman, and to be imprisoned in this Castle of Caernavon.

But the event showed that there was a spirit afloat which these fierce barbarities of regal tyranny were only rousing into a degree of fury which would sweep both church and throne from the land. The Puritan friends of Prynne flocked to Caernavon Castle in such numbers, that the poor mutilated prisoner sate more like a monarch holding a perpetual levee than a convict who had endured the vilest insults and the savagest brutalities of the law. Only ten weeks had elapsed since Prynne was brought to this royal stronghold when he was illegally removed by a warrant from the Lords of the Council, and removed to the Castle of Mount Orgueil, in the island of Jersey.

There is no reminiscence more lively than that of the short incarceration of Prynne in this castle. One of its earliest historical events was the surprise of it by Madoc, a natural son of Llewellyn, in 1295, and his retention of it till Edward I. expelled him from it. In 1402, Owen Glendower made a successful attempt to seize several of the Welsh castles, but was repulsed from the gates of this stronghold. In the Wars of the Roses it repeatedly changed masters, and, in 1644, Cromwell’s forces obtained possession of it, made 400 of the garrison prisoners, and enriched themselves with much spoil. Lord Byron soon after retook it for the king; but in 1646 the Parliament regained it. In 1660, the first year of Charles II., an order was issued for the demolition of the Castle; but, fortunately, it was not completely carried out. The property still continues in the possession of the Crown; and the Marquis of Anglesea holds the office of constable of it, as well as that of Mayor of the town and ranger of Snowdon Forest.

A BALL AT THE WINTER PALACE

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

I am going to tell you about a _fête_ at which I was present without being there, from which my body was absent but to which my eye was invited--a court ball! Invisible, I saw everything, and, moreover, I did not have upon my finger the Ring of Gyges, nor upon my head the green felt cap of a Kobold, nor any other talisman.

Upon the Alexander Square, covered with its carpet of snow, numerous carriages were stationed although the cold would freeze Parisian coachmen and horses, but which did not seem sufficiently rigorous for the Russians to have the braziers lighted under the iron kiosks with Chinese roofs in the vicinity of the Winter Palace. The trees of the Admiralty, diamonded with hoar-frost, looked like great white plumes planted in the earth, and the Triumphal Column had candied its rose granite with a layer of ice resembling sugar; the moon, that rose pure and bright, poured its dead light upon all this nocturnal whiteness, turned the shadows to blue, and gave a fantastic appearance to the motionless silhouettes of the equipages whose frosted lanterns punctuated the immense expanse with yellowish points like polar stars. In the background, the colossal Winter Palace flamed at all its windows, like a mountain pierced with holes and lighted by an internal fire.

Absolute silence reigned over the square; the rigour of the temperature kept away the curious, who in Paris would not have neglected flocking together for the spectacle of such a _fête_, although watched from a distance and from the outside; and if there had been a crowd, the approaches to the palace are so vast that it would have been scattered and lost in that enormous space which only an army could fill.

A sleigh crossed diagonally the great white cloth upon which was extended the shadow of the Alexandrine Column and lost itself in the dark street that separates the Winter Palace from the Hermitage, and that gains from its aërial bridge some resemblance to the Canal della Paglia at Venice.

A few minutes later, an eye, which you may consider as separated from the body, sped along a cornice supported by the portico of a gallery of the palace; rows of wax-candles planted in the mouldings of the entablature hid it behind a hedge of fire and allowed no one from below to perceive its feeble gleam. The light hid it better than shadow could have done; it was lost in the dazzling brilliancy.

The gallery seen from there extended long and deep with its polished columns, its mirror-like inlaid floor full of gliding reflections of gold candlelight, its pictures filling the spaces between the columns, the foreshortening of which prevented the subjects from being discerned. Already brilliant uniforms were promenading and ample court robes were trailing their waves of material there. Little by little, the crowd increased and, like a river, variegated and shining, filled the bed of the gallery which, notwithstanding its great width, had already become too narrow.

Every eye of this crowd was turned towards the door through which the emperor must enter. The folding doors opened: the emperor, the empress, and the grand-dukes traversed the gallery between two suddenly-formed hedges of the invited guests, addressing a few words with gracious and noble familiarity to personages of distinction stationed along their way. Then the imperial group disappeared through the door directly opposite, followed at a respectful distance by the grand dignitaries of State, the diplomatic body, the generals, and the courtiers.

The procession had scarcely entered the ball-room before the eye was installed there, equipped this time with a good opera-glass. It was like a furnace of light and heat, a blaze so intense as to seem almost like a conflagration. Cordons of fire ran along the cornices; in the spaces between the windows high stands, with a thousand arms each, blazed like burning bushes; hundreds of chandeliers hung from the ceilings, like fiery constellations in the midst of a phosphorescent fog. And all these lights, interlacing their rays, made a most dazzling illumination.

The first impression, especially at this height on leaning over this gulf of light, is a sort of vertigo; at first, across the waves of light from the mirrors, the glitter of the gold, the sparkle of the diamonds, the flash of the jewels, and the sheen of rich material, nothing can be distinguished. A swarmlike scintillation prevents you from seizing any forms; then soon the pupil grows accustomed to the dazzle and chases the black butterflies that flutter before it as after looking at the sun; from one end to the other, it embraces this gigantic hall all in marble and white stucco, the polished walls of which shine like the jaspers and porphyries in the Babylonian architecture of Martin’s engravings, vaguely reflecting lights and objects.

The kaleidoscope, with its falling apart of coloured particles that ceaselessly re-form in new figures; or the chromatrope, with its expansions and contractions, where a painting becomes a flower, then changes its petals for the points of a crown, and ends by whirling into a sun, passing from a ruby to an emerald, from a topaz to an amethyst around a diamond centre, can alone, thousands of times enlarged, give an idea of this moving parterre of gold, precious stones, and flowers, changing its glittering arabesques by means of its perpetual agitation.

At the entrance of the imperial family, this moving effulgence came to rest, and you could distinguish faces and persons across the subdued scintillation.

In Russia, the court balls open with what is called a polonaise: this is not a dance, but a sort of a parade, a procession, a _torch-march_. Those who take part in it divide in such a way as to leave in the centre of the ball-room a sort of avenue of which they form the hedges. When everybody is in place, the orchestra plays an air in a majestic and slow rhythm, and the promenade begins; it is led by the Emperor, who gives his hand to a princess, or a lady whom he wishes to honour.

Behind the imperial family, come the high officers of the army and palace, the grand dignitaries each giving a hand to a lady.

The procession continues to march and is recruited on the way: a gentleman leaves the hedge and offers his hand to a lady placed opposite to him, and this new couple joins the others and takes its place in the line, with rhythmic steps slowing up or accelerating according to the movement of the head. It cannot be an easy thing to march thus, holding merely by the finger-tips under the fire of a thousand readily ironical glances: the least _gaucherie_ of countenance, the slightest awkwardness with the feet, an almost imperceptible fault in the time would be noticed. Military habits help many of the men, but how difficult for the women! The majority of them acquit themselves admirably, and of more than one of them you could say: _Et vera incessu patuit dea!_ They pass along lightly beneath their plumes, their flowers, and their diamonds, modestly lowering their eyes or letting them wander with an air of perfect innocence, manœuvring their waves of silk and lace with a movement of the body or a little stroke of the heel, refreshing themselves with a flutter of the fan, as much at ease as if they were walking in the solitary avenue of a park.

More than one great actress has never learnt how to move in so noble, graceful and simple a manner while the world is gazing at her.

When the polonaise has traversed the salon and the gallery, the ball begins. The dances have nothing characteristic in them; they are quadrilles, waltzes, and redowas as in Paris, London, Madrid, Vienna, and everywhere else in the fashionable world; except, however, the mazourka which is danced at St. Petersburg with a perfection and elegance unknown elsewhere. Local customs are everywhere disappearing and first of all they desert the upper ranks of society. To find them anew, one must withdraw from the centres of civilization and descend to the depths of the people!

The general effect, however, was charming: the dance formed amid the splendid crowd which arranged itself symmetrically to make room for it; the whirl of the waltz distended the robes like the skirts of whirling dervishes, and the rapid motion lengthened out the strings of diamonds and the swords of gold and silver in serpentine gleams like flashes of lightning; and the little gloved hands resting on the epaulettes of the waltzers looked like white camellias in vases of massive gold.

After an hour or two of bird’s eye observation, the eye transported itself beneath the arches of another hall through mysterious and labyrinth-like passages, where the distant sounds of the orchestra and the _fête_ died away in indistinct murmurings. A comparative darkness reigned in this enormous hall: it was here that the supper was to take place. Many cathedrals are less vast. In the background, through the shadows, the white lines of the tables were outlined; in the corners vaguely glimmered gigantic blocks of indistinct _orfévrerie_ sharply spangled flashing back a ray coming I know not whence: these were the sideboards. A velvet platform revealed steps leading to a table formed like a horseshoe. In silent activity came and went lackeys in full livery, major-domos, and gastronomic officials, putting the last touch to the viands. A few stray lights spotted this dark background, like sparks upon burning paper.

However, innumerable candles filled the chandeliers and followed the cordons of the friezes and the outlines of the arcades. They sprang up white from their bunched candelabra like pistils in the calixes of flowers, but not the slightest luminous star trembled at their tips. One might have called them frozen stalactites; and already was heard, like the rush of overflowing waters, the heavy sound of the approaching throng.--The Emperor appeared at the threshold: it was like a _fiat lux_. A subtle flame ran from one candle to another, as quick as lightning: everything became illuminated at a single stroke and a flood of light suddenly filled the immense hall, aglow as if by magic. This sudden transition from penumbra to the most brilliant light was truly fairy-like. In our prosaic century every wonder must be explained: threads of gun-cotton connected all the wicks soaked with an inflammable essence, and a light applied in seven or eight places, propagated itself instantly. With gas-lights lowered and raised one could produce an analogous effect; but gas, as we know, is not used at the Winter Palace. They burn nothing but candles of the purest wax. It is in Russia only that the bees now contribute to illumination. The Empress took her place with several personages of high distinction upon the platform where stood the horseshoe table. Behind her gilt arm-chair unfolded, like a gigantic floral firework, an immense sheaf of white and pink camellias piled against the marble wall. Twelve negroes of large size chosen from among the best specimens of the African race, dressed _à la mameluk_,--a white turban twisted and rolled, a green round jacket with golden coins, full trousers of red held by a belt of cashmire, the whole braided and embroidered on all the seams, descended and mounted the steps of the platform, handing the plates to the lackeys or taking them from their hands with movements full of the grace and dignity peculiar to Eastern races, although their employment was servile. These Orientals having forgotten Desdemona, did their duties with a majestic air and gave to this European _fête_ an Asiatic _cachet_ in the best taste.

Without being shown to their places, the invited guests placed themselves at the tables intended for them. Rich _épergnes_, silvered and gilt, representing groups of figures, or flowers, or mythological or fantastical ornaments, garnished the centres; and candelabra alternated with pyramids of fruits and set pieces. Regarded from a height, the brilliant symmetry of the crystals and porcelains, the silver and the flowers, was understood better than from below. A double row of women’s necks glittering with diamonds, and framed in lace, ranged the whole length of the tablecloths, disclosing their beauties to the invisible eye, whose glance could also wander among the flowers, the leaves, the feathers, and the jewels.

The Emperor visited the tables, addressing a few words to those he wished to distinguish, sitting down sometimes and moistening his lips with a glass of champagne, then withdrawing to do the same elsewhere. These stops of a few moments are considered a great mark of favour.

After supper, the dances were resumed; but the night was drawing on. It was time to leave; the _fête_ could only repeat itself, and for a purely ocular enjoyment it no longer offered the same interest. The sleigh that had crossed the square to stop at a little door in the alley separating the Winter Palace from the Hermitage, reappeared, making its way to the side of St. Isaac’s Church, and bringing a _pelisse_ and a fur cap which completely covered the face. As if the sky wished to rival the splendours of the earth, an aurora borealis threw into the night its polar fireworks with rockets of silver, gold, purple, and mother-of-pearl, extinguishing the stars with its phosphorescent irradiations.

FONTAINEBLEAU

GRANT ALLEN

What Versailles is to the Augustan age of Louis Quatorze, that and more is Fontainebleau to the French Renaissance. As the Palace in the Marsh reflects and preserves for us the glories of the Grand Monarch, so the Palace in the Forest reflects and preserves for us the glories of the gay and splendour-loving kings from François Premier to Henri Quatre. It embodies in itself at a single glance what may fairly be called the age of the Médici in France, and shows us at one _coup d’œil_ the entire history and development of Renaissance architecture among the French people. Its great halls and long galleries are replete to this day with memories of the giddy butterfly throng which crowded the court of “the kings who amused themselves.”

From a very early period, a Château of the French kings occupied the site of the existing palace. But of this building not a single relic now shows externally in any part of the façade, with the solitary exception of one mediæval turret, assigned to Saint Louis, and still adjoining the Cour Ovale of the modern palace. The origin of the first Château was simple and natural enough. It existed as a hunting tower in the midst of a royal forest. In our own day, that wild woodland region with its strange sandstone rocks and deep parallel valleys envisages itself to most of us as a mere appanage of the great mansion which skirts its fringe. But, in reality, it is the forest, of course, which created the palace, and not the palace which created the forest. Some thirty and five miles south-east of Paris, the Seine bends round and partly traverses a remarkable district of long sandy ridges, tilted up at an angle as the last subsiding ripple of that great secular earth-wave which produced through slow ages the elevation of the central European axis in the Alpine region. From time immemorial, this light and somewhat sterile soil has been covered by a thick growth of native oaks and beeches. The maritime pines and Riga spruces, indeed, which add so greatly to the picturesque effect of the woodland at the present day, are but recent introductions from the Mediterranean and Baltic shore; and the whole forest as we now know it, has been trimmed and dressed by the obtrusive art of the modern planter, out of all similitude to its antique self. But the deciduous trees are for the most part indigenous; and the few stags and wild boars still carefully preserved by the game-keepers of the Republic represent the descendants of a far wilder fauna which Merwing and Carling may well have hunted a dozen centuries since under the spreading boughs of those ancient oaks that bear to-day the quaint names of Pharamond and of Charlemagne.

The original Château, of which St. Louis’s bedchamber forms the chief remaining portion, was probably founded under Louis VII. in the Twelfth Century. The Chapel of Saint Saturnin, the first predecessor of the existing church, has for Englishmen indeed a special interest from the fact that it was consecrated by Thomas à Becket during his period of exile from the anger of Henry at the French Court. The Château was a favourite residence of the saintly Louis IX. whose name still clings to the arcade of the Cour Ovale, though scarcely a trace of his buildings has survived the complete reconstruction of the exterior front under François Premier. The Fontainebleau of those days, in fact, was a feudal castle of the frowning type with which we are all so familiar along the banks of the Loire or among the dales of Normandy. Nothing could be more different than its gloomy turrets, its narrow windows, its airless halls, and its mediæval tortuousness, from the light, the space, the air, the brightness of its Renaissance successor.