Chapter II: Part 2

How well I remember one pleasant morning in September--more than two years ago, I declare!--when a merry party of us, English and Americans, met at the counting house of our noble friend, Mr. B----, to go from thence to Hampton Court. It was in the city of London that we met. This is entered from the town, which holds most of the parks and palaces of royalty and the nobility, by an old, old gateway, called Temple Bar. When the Queen is to pay a visit to the city, Temple Bar gate is closed, and she must respectfully ask admittance of the lord mayor, and he must graciously present the keys to her before she may come in. The lord mayor is the real king of London, and takes precedence of royalty in all processions in the city, as, for instance, the funeral procession of the Duke of Wellington, after it passed Temple Bar. All lord mayors are elected from the board of aldermen; they serve but one year, during which time they live in a very handsome residence, called "The Mansion House," and ride in a splendid, but rather gaudy and old-fashioned coach--something such as you have seen pictures of in the story of Dick Whittington.

Each new sovereign attends, with the court, a grand ball, given by the lord mayor, at Guildhall; on which occasion there is always a magnificent display, both on the part of the aristocracy and the citizens.

Guildhall is a large building, where the aldermen and councilmen meet, to transact business and eat good dinners. In the hall where balls and great banquets are given stand two gigantic painted figures, called Gog and Magog, which are very quaint and odd-looking, and I don't know how many years old.

"But what," you will say, "has all this to do with Hampton Court?"

Well, we started from the city, a social, merry party, of five or six; and, after laughing and chatting in a comfortable English railway carriage, for a few minutes, arrived at the station, near the palace.

The old palace of Hampton Court stands on the northern bank of the Thames, about twelve miles west of Hyde Park, and is situated in the parish of Hampton, and county of Middlesex.

In the reign of Henry VIII., when the great prelate, Cardinal Wolsey, was at the height of his power, he leased the old manor and manor-house of the Knights-Hospitallers of Jerusalem, to whom it then belonged, for the purpose of building a palace suitable to his rank and splendor. He erected a structure so magnificent, and so far surpassing any of the royal residences, that he quite overshot his mark, and roused the jealousy of the king, who bluntly asked him what he, a priest, and a butcher's son, meant by building for himself a palace handsomer than any of his king's. Then the cunning Cardinal, putting the best face he could on the matter, said that he had only been trying to build a residence worthy of so great and glorious a monarch, and that Hampton Court was at King Henry's service. The king jumped at the offer, but in return bestowed upon Wolsey the old manor of Richmond, the favorite residence of his father, Henry VII. It was observed, when the great Cardinal was going home, after this interview with his royal master, that he scowled and growled at his followers, and belabored the poor mule that he rode most unmercifully.

So, by gift from Cardinal Wolsey, Hampton Court became the property of the crown.

Edward VI. was born in this palace, and mostly resided here, during his short, but happy reign. Gloomy Queen Mary and her false hearted husband, Philip of Spain, spent their honey-moon, or rather vinegar-moon, here. Queen Elizabeth here gave several great festivals, and her successor, the mean and pedantic James I. held a great religious conference in the privy-chamber,--he, the most immoderate of bigots, sitting as _moderator_. Here he entertained some great French princes at one time, very handsomely; every thing being on a royal scale except the host. Here he lost his wife, Anne of Denmark, a very respectable sort of a woman, much too good for him.

Charles I., with his queen and court, sought refuge at this place from the plague, which was ravaging London. But there was another trouble that came upon him from which he could not escape, even here. Death, with his scythe, passed by the healthful shades of the country palace, but the executioner with his axe was not to be evaded.

The Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, resided sometimes at this palace; but his favorite daughter, Elizabeth, a very lovely woman, died here, and after that, it was the saddest place in all the world to him.

Charles II., with his gay court, which hardly held one honest man, or reputable woman, used to hold revels here; and stubborn James II. resided here now and then, till he was driven by a roused people from throne, palace, and country. William III. was very partial to Hampton Court, and did much to improve and adorn it. His queen here performed prodigious labors in the embroidery line, and kept her maids of honor as hard at work on chair covers and bed curtains as though they were poor seamstresses, toiling for their daily bread.

George II. and Queen Caroline were the last sovereigns who resided at this palace. It is now only occupied by the officers and servants who have charge of it, and some dowagers and poor women of rank, called in England "decayed gentlewomen." To those ladies the queen allots apartments, and they live very handsomely and comfortably, though I should think they would have rather lonely times, amid the melancholy grandeur and stillness of that deserted old palace.

Over the gateway by which we entered are carved the arms of Cardinal Wolsey, with a Latin inscription, signifying "God is my help," a lying motto, as his own words afterwards proved; for, when dying in disgrace, he exclaimed, "If I had served my God half as faithfully as I have served my king, He would not have given me over to my enemies in my old age."

We went up the grand staircase, to the guard-chamber, and from thence passed through several suites of noble rooms, hung with pictures and ancient tapestry, with frescoed ceilings, and carved and gilded cornices. The most interesting among the pictures are portraits of famous people, kings, queens, princes, heroes, and beauties, of whom we read in history.

But as there are more than a thousand paintings at Hampton Court, of course I cannot stop to describe any of these, though about many I could tell you very strange and romantic stories.

The most magnificent apartment in the palace, and one of the grandest in the world, is the great hall, which is one hundred and six feet long, forty wide, and sixty high. The roof is beautifully carved and decorated with the royal arms and badges, the walls are hung with costly tapestry, the windows are richly stained, and bear the arms and pedigree of Henry VIII. and his six wives.

From this hall we passed through another splendid apartment, called "the withdrawing room," down "the queen's staircase," into a court, containing a pretty fountain, and from thence into the gardens. These are very fine, but rather too stiffly and formally laid out to suit our modern taste. I remember one narrow, gloomy alley, of boxwood, or yew, called "Queen Mary's Walk," after bloody Mary, who used to take her evening exercise here alone, marching slowly up and down in the waning twilight, meditating, I fear, those frightful persecutions, rackings, and burnings of the poor Protestants, and trying to steel her heart against the womanly pity that would creep into it sometimes, in spite of all the admonitions of Cardinal Pole and Bishop Gardiner, and the counsels of her cruel husband.

The greatest curiosity of these gardens is a Hamburg grape-vine, supposed to be the largest in the world. It alone fills a green-house seventy-two feet long and thirty broad. It is itself one hundred and ten feet long; and is thirty inches in circumference, three feet from the ground. It often bears as many as two thousand five hundred bunches.

From the green-house, we walked down to the Thames, and then returned through a beautiful avenue of linden-trees, to the east part of the palace, where there is a fountain and a basin containing gold and silver fish. Then we whiled away another hour in the grounds, the "Labyrinth," and under the noble chestnut and lime trees in the great avenue, which is more than a mile in length, and then the golden day was over!

THE LADY MARY'S VISION,

_A Story of Hampton Court._

Some ten years ago, there resided for a time, in a pleasant suite of apartments at Hampton Court, a young and beautiful gentlewoman, who was greatly beloved by all who knew her, for her goodness and her sweet and winning ways. Lady Mary Hamilton, or "the Lady Mary," as she was called by the pensioners and retainers there, was the youngest daughter of a poor Scottish nobleman, and the widow of a still poorer young officer. Captain Hamilton, soon after his marriage, was ordered to join the army in Afghanistan and for several months dared danger and death, and endured frightful hardships, in that dreadful war against a treacherous and savage people.

At last, in a skirmish among the mountains, he was seen to fall under the spear-thrust of a fierce Afghan chief, and was reported as "killed," though his body was never recovered by his victorious comrades. It was supposed that the natives had carried him off in their retreat, to plunder him at leisure.

But the Lady Mary never would give him up as really dead; and though she was very sorrowful and anxious for him, she could not be persuaded to put on a widow's dress, or cover her soft, brown hair with a widow's cap. She even refused to receive a widow's pension, professing always a firm belief that her husband was yet living.

Month after month went by, till two long years had passed, and brought her no word from her beloved George; and still she did not despair.

It was said that she was kept up by happy dreams--that her husband often came to her in her sleep, and told her to be of good cheer, and all would yet be well. However that may have been, it is certain that she never wholly lost heart.

The queen kindly offered Lady Mary apartments at Hampton Court, and she gladly accepted, for she was poor, and then, she felt that she should like the melancholy quiet of the old palace far better than the gayety and bustle of the town. And so she came to Hampton Court to live, and "wait for my husband," she said, smiling sadly, while her friends shook their heads, and whispered among themselves that "the poor dear creature was hardly in her right mind."

The lonely Lady Mary soon became a great favorite with the guards and servitors at Hampton Court. They all felt for her a tender, respectful pity, and would do any thing in their power to serve her. Being very shy, she never liked to visit the show apartments of the palace, at hours when she might meet strangers. So, the kind porter would often let her go in by herself, and sometimes even give her the keys, that she might stay as long as she pleased in any of the halls or galleries.

She was romantic and poetical, and loved much to visit the grand old hall, on summer evenings, and see the rich sunset light pour in, and then fade softly out through the gorgeous stained windows. Sometimes, she would linger here till the long twilight was over, and the starlight and moonlight struggled through the stained glass, and faintly lit up the hall, silvering over the faded tapestry and banners, glistening on the old arms and armor. Strolling up and down the hall, or seated under one of the great windows, she would think and dream, and try to forget the sorrows of her humble life in remembering the misfortunes of the great and royal ones, who had so often walked where she walked, and sat where she sat.

Once old Roger, the porter, asked her if she were not afraid to stay there, all alone by herself, so late.

"Why, no," she answered, "what should I be afraid of?"

He shrugged his shoulders, but said no more; I suppose because he did not know what to say, to such a simple, childlike question.

One lovely August evening, the Lady Mary stayed later than usual in "Wolsey's Hall."

The sunset glory faded and faded away; the twilight deepened and deepened into night; the moon and the stars looked in upon her through the great window. She was weary and sad, and the lonely stillness of that place seemed to suit her; she seemed to _feel_ the calm moonlight in which she sat, bathing her like a soft, soothing flood. She leaned her head against the tapestried wall, closed her eyes, and thought, and thought of the great days and splendid festivals long gone by--of kings and queens, brave knights, and beautiful ladies, and--when all at once that vast hall was lighted up as though by magic! Music swelled through the arches, and a splendid court came slowly sweeping in! First walked a stout, red-faced man, all velvets and jewels, with a dark, sorrowful-looking lady on his right; and on his left, an elderly man, with a bold, haughty face, and a rich dress of scarlet velvet and ermine.

The Lady Mary recognized these as Henry VIII., Queen Katharine, and Cardinal Wolsey.

They were followed by maids of honor, gentlemen, priests, and pages.

Soon there was a livelier peal of music, and the dance began. The king danced with the most beautiful of the maids of honor, whom he smiled lovingly upon, while the poor queen looked very unhappy. So the Lady Mary knew that this fair maid must be Anne Boleyn.

When the dance ended, the gay court passed out; but again there was music, and another swept in. This was headed by a proud, stately woman, with golden hair, and cold blue eyes. She wore a sparkling diadem; her dress was of stiff brocade, thickly bestrewn with pearls and diamonds, while about her neck was a ruff so prodigious, that it alone would keep everybody at a very respectful distance. On her left, walked a handsome noble, most royally dressed, and behind came a brilliant host of beauties, pages, cavaliers, poets, and statesmen.

The Lady Mary now recognized Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Essex, and the court.

The queen took her place upon the throne and graciously desired her court to be seated. Before them was a stage; they were to witness a play. The queen signified that she was ready, and the play began. It was "Henry VIII., or the Fall of Wolsey."

The queen seemed interested, and applauded occasionally, though the actors played badly. They were half frightened to death at appearing in that august place, before her august majesty; all but one, who went through with his part in a quiet, manly way, which did him great credit. This was the author--William Shakspeare.

At length the queen, court, and actors all went out, and there came in next, not a court, with music and pomp, but quietly and silently, a dark, sad-looking man, leading two children by the hand. These three walked up and down the hall, several times--the man talking to the children, and telling them, it seemed, something very sad, for they cried and clung to him, and then the three passed out, weeping.

The Lady Mary knew these to be Charles I. and his children, whom he had been telling, perhaps, that he might soon be put to death.

Next there came, in stillness also, a stern, haggard-faced man, in a rough, half-military dress, with a sweet delicate-looking lady, in white. She was clinging to his arm, and seemed expostulating with him very earnestly, but he shook his head, yet at the same time he tenderly smoothed her hair, with his strong hand, and playfully pinched her thin cheek, and tried to smile. Then he suddenly turned, and strode out of the hall. The lady stood a moment, looking after him mournfully, and then passed out also.

The Lady Mary knew these two to be Cromwell and his daughter Elizabeth, who often interceded with her father, for political offenders.

Again there was loud music, and again a brilliant court came pouring in. First walked a dark, dissolute-looking young man, very gayly dressed, with long curls dangling about his shoulders, handing carelessly along a pale, dispirited lady, who didn't seem to find much comfort in the queenly diadem she wore.

The ball began, and soon it was turned into a wild revel. Beautiful, but bold ladies, and reckless looking gentlemen, danced and laughed, sung and feasted, and gamed, and grew merrier and madder every minute.

The Lady Mary became frightened, for she saw that she was in the profligate court of Charles II. She tried to hide behind the tapestry by the window, but a rollicking nobleman, whom she recognized by his portraits as the Earl of Rochester, caught sight of her, and sprang forward, to drag her out into the midst of the hall! She flung his hand off, with a scream, and lo, he, the king, the queen, the court, the lights, every thing vanished!

_It was all a dream!_

The Lady Mary was alone in the old hall, in the silent night, now darker than before, for a cloud had come over the moon.

She groped her way to the door, unlocked it, and passed into the withdrawing room. At the further end she saw some one coming, she could not see who it was, by the dim starlight, so she asked: "Roger, is that you?"

"No, Mary," answered a glad, tremulous voice, "it is not Roger--it is I--George!"

With a wild, joyful cry, the Lady Mary sprang forward, and was clasped in her husband's arms.

And _this_ was not a dream.

Captain Hamilton had been severely wounded, and taken captive by the Afghans. They had kept him a close prisoner in the mountains, not even permitting him to write a letter to any one, for two years. He had at last been discovered, liberated, and sent home to recover his health, which had suffered somewhat in his hardship and confinement.

On arriving at Hampton Court, whither he had been directed from London, he had been told by old Roger where his wife probably was, as he could not find her in her apartments, and was on his way to the hall, when he met her, as we have seen.

The next time that the Lady Mary visited that old hall, to walk in the moonlight, or muse in her favorite window-seat, it was observed that she did not go alone.

Windsor Castle

KING JAMES OF SCOTLAND AND
THE LADY JANE BEAUFORT.

One of the pleasantest excursions which a traveller can make from London is to Windsor, with its parks and grounds so wonderfully luxuriant and beautiful, and so vast in extent, and its royal old castle--certainly one of the noblest sights in all England.

This is finely situated on the Thames; it overlooks a rich and lovely country, and is seen from great distances--a grand, crowning object in the landscape.

I visited Windsor with a party of Americans, some of whom I had never seen before, and have not met since; but I always think of them with kindly interest, because I shared with them so great a pleasure. I wonder if they remember it as well as I do!

'Twas on a bright, but not unpleasantly warm day in midsummer, when the parks and gardens were in all the glory of their greenness and bloom, when fountains sparkled in the sun and birds warbled in the shade, and the sky above was clear and blue enough to make up for all the clouds and fogs I had seen since I came to England.

We went directly from the station to the Castle, a grand mass of ancient and modern buildings, towers, and turrets, and parapets--all solidly but elegantly built, of dark gray stone.

We entered through a lofty gateway, into the court-yard, from thence into a sort of guardroom, where we recorded our names in a book; and then were conducted up a great marble staircase, to the state apartments. These are somewhat jumbled up in my mind with the hosts of magnificent rooms which I have since seen in many other royal palaces; but I remember that they were all very handsome, richly furnished, and hung with fine pictures and gorgeous tapestry. I recollect most distinctly "The Vandyke Room," called so because of its containing several great pictures by that famous painter--principally portraits of Charles I. and his family. Then there is "The Waterloo Chamber," hung round with portraits of heroes and great men, and "St. George's Hall," a grand banqueting room, two hundred feet in length, and the beautiful ball-room, as brilliant as rich carving and gilding and delicate painting can make it.

Our party had permission to see not only the state, but the private apartments of the palace. These are less splendid than those great show rooms, but more tasteful, beautiful, and comfortable. Yes, _comfortable_--for the English, even in their grandest palaces, manage to have the dear, cosy home look and feeling about them. The Queen's breakfast parlor, looking out on a pleasant terrace, simply though richly furnished, and hung with portraits of herself, Prince Albert, and the royal children, is a very charming apartment indeed. We came to this through a long, bright corridor, lined with beautiful pictures, bronzes, graceful statuettes, and elegant curiosities, so that one could but be charmed to linger by the way. Several of the pictures represented scenes in her Majesty's life--her first council--her coronation--her marriage--the christening of the princess royal, etc.

Many palaces have such a vast, cold, awfully grand look that one fancies kings and queens must have very dull, stiff, dreary times, living in them, and must often long for a simple, snug little cottage-home, somewhere away from all their pomp and splendor. But it is not so at Windsor; I did not pity the Queen at all. I even fancied that I could be very comfortable myself, living at the palace, after getting a little used to it. Her Majesty never gave me an opportunity to test this, however.

Attached to the Castle is the beautiful chapel of St. George, in which the court, when at Windsor, attend service. Here, a place is partitioned off for the royal family, something like a box at the opera, only enclosed by a fine lattice work screen, to prevent the people, I suppose, from gazing at the Queen and Prince Albert, when they should be minding their devotions.

From the chapel we went to the royal stables, where we were shown some very fine horses and elegant equipages. There were the Queen's carriages of all varieties, and little pony phaetons, and Canadian sleighs and Russian sledges; and there were her carriage and riding horses, and Prince Albert's hunters, and the children's ponies. The stables are handsome and comfortable buildings, and are kept with the utmost care, order, and neatness. Thousands of poor people might envy the high-blooded brutes such a home as this. Some of the horses were very beautiful and graceful animals, and all were groomed so carefully it seemed no one hair was longer than the others. In almost every stall was a sleek, lazy, high-bred looking cat, either perched upon the back of the horse, dozing and blinking, or curled up in the straw at his feet, fast asleep. The grooms told us that the horses were really very fond of their feline companions, and treated them tenderly and protectingly.

From the castle we drove to the delightful pleasure-grounds of Virginia Water. Passing up a magnificent avenue, more than three miles long, we came to a height, on which stands a large equestrian statue of George III., in the dress of an ancient Roman. This is the king we rebelled against, you know. He was a domineering, stubborn, crack-brained old gentleman, but, for all that, honest and good-humored. I should not think him particularly like an ancient Roman, except in his obstinacy.

Next we came to Virginia Water, which is just the loveliest place I ever saw. Here are luxuriant plantations and gardens, summer-houses, temples, fountains, cascades, woods, walks, and drives. Here is a shining, winding little lake, with fairy-like pleasure-boats upon it, and graceful swans slowly sailing over the clear, blue waves, and looking like the reflection of small white clouds, floating in the sky above.

Virginia Water is the play-ground of royalty. The celebrated Duke of Cumberland, George IV., and William IV., amused themselves here a great deal, at an enormous and very foolish expense, sometimes. The duke built an absurd Chinese temple and a useless clock-tower. George had ruins brought from Greece and Egypt, and set up in the wood; while William, who had been a sailor, had a little vessel of war built to defend the miniature sea.

The Duke of Cumberland's clock-tower was sold to a rich country gentleman, who soon tired of it, and wished to sell it back to the crown. But King George objected to his price, and refused to buy. The owner, who was a shrewd fellow, a sort of English Barnum, said, "Very well," but immediately took means to render himself a very uncomfortable neighbor, by mounting a large telescope on the top of the tower, and coolly watching the king in all his loyal recreations. This quite enraged his Majesty; but he bought the tower on the owner's terms, who, I am sorry to say, was disloyal enough to make him pay dear for the telescope.

When Queen Victoria is at Windsor, the royal standard is seen floating from the highest tower, and strangers are not admitted to the castle. But the great park is always open to the people. Here they sometimes meet the Queen and Prince Albert walking or riding, without an escort, and so plainly dressed that those who expect to see sovereigns and princes always surrounded by pomp and show, might pass them by unnoticed. The little princes and princesses are often seen walking and playing in the grounds, also very simply dressed. They are fine, healthy, natural children, and are admirably governed and cared for. Their good mother sees that especial attention is paid to their health, and has established a wise and strict system of exercise and diet. She keeps them in the country and on the sea-shore as much as possible; she overlooks their studies, reading, and sports; she is very careful that they go early to bed, and rise in time to hear the good-morning song of the lark. As for their diet, many an American farmer's or shopkeeper's children would think it very hard if they were restricted to such simple food as these sons and daughters of a great queen are content with and thrive on; oatmeal porridge, butterless bread, a very little meat, no rich gravies,--water, milk, a limited amount of fruit, and no sweetmeats.

The Prince of Wales, who, if he lives, will be the next king of England, is an amiable and gallant young lad, but is a little too apt, I heard it said, to take kingly airs upon himself before his time. I was told of an instance of this very natural fault, in which he was taught a good lesson.

It happened some two or three summers ago, that he invited one of the boys from Eton College, which is near Windsor, to spend a day with him at the castle. This boy, though the son of a nobleman, was untitled, I believe, but perhaps all the more sturdy and manly for that, and not to be put upon, even by a prince.

All went well for a time, but at last, the prince took offence at some bit of sport, and did not restrain his temper or his tongue. The Etonian resented the insult, I am sorry to say, in the usual school-boy fashion, by a resort to blows; and being stronger than the prince, soon got the advantage of him. The attendants raised an alarm, and Prince Albert himself came to the field of battle. The Etonian, having let the little prince up, stood bravely facing his royal father.

"Why, what is the matter, boys?" asked Prince Albert.

"The matter is, your royal highness, that I have beaten your son. It was because he insulted me, and I won't stand an insult from any boy."

The prince, after inquiring into the matter, reproved young Albert; and being a soldier, did not blame the Eton boy for his want of peace principles, as you or I would doubtless have done.

There are many stories in English history connected with Windsor Castle, but none I think so pretty as that of

KING JAMES OF SCOTLAND AND THE LADY JANE BEAUFORT.

About four hundred and fifty years ago, when Henry IV. was king of England, King Robert III., of Scotland, put his son James, the heir to his throne, a boy of nine years old, on board ship, to send him to France, to be educated. But the vessel was taken by some English cruisers, and the little prince carried captive to King Henry, who treacherously imprisoned him at Windsor Castle.

King Robert was a very loving father, and when the news of this capture was brought to him, as he sat at supper in his palace at Rothesay, he was so overcome with grief that he fainted and seemed about to die. His attendants carried him to his chamber and laid him on his bed, which he never left again; for when he came out of his swoon, he hid his face in the pillow, and wept, and wept, refusing to be comforted,--sending all his food away untasted, and scarcely ever speaking, except to repeat the name of his son, over and over again, in a way to break one's heart. So he took on for three days and nights, and then died.

But the prince, now King James, was not so badly off as he might have been. Though a prisoner, he was not confined in a gloomy dungeon, but had handsome and comfortable apartments, in a tower which overlooked a beautiful garden, where trees waved, and birds sang, and fountains sparkled, and flowers sent up sweet perfumes to his windows. The sun shone and the stars looked in upon him; and when a prisoner can see the sun and the stars, he cannot feel that God has quite forgotten him, or the angels ceased to watch over him. He was not left alone, or deprived of employments and amusements. King Henry commanded that he should have a right princely education. He had masters who taught him history, grammar, oratory, music, sword-exercise, jousting, singing, and dancing. He was handsome, graceful, and clever, but always most celebrated for his poetical talent. As he grew to manhood, he became one of the noblest poets of his day, and even now his verses, though quaint and old-fashioned, are very sweet, pure, and pleasant to read.

One fresh May morning, when James had been a captive in Windsor Castle nearly eighteen years, as he was looking down from his window, he saw a beautiful young lady walking in the garden. She was dressed all in white; a net of pearls and sapphires confined her golden hair, and a rich chain of gold was about her delicate throat. By her side sported a pretty little Italian greyhound, with a string of tinkling silver bells around his neck.

As she moved among the flowers, the violet looked up into her eyes, and thought their tender blue was her own reflection. The rose said to herself, "What a rich bloom I must have, if even my shadow makes her cheeks so red!" The lily had similar thoughts about her neck; while the golden laburnum thought it and the sunbeams had been the making of her hair.

This lovely dame was the Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset. Of course, King James, having little else to do, fell in love with her without delay, and in a very short time told her so, by means of tender rhymes, which he sent fluttering down into her path. The Lady Jane was charmed with his verses, and found it easy to go from admiring the poetry into loving the poet. To be frank, and tell him so, she wrote a little billet, and tied it under the wing of a white dove, directing him to carry it straight to the captive's window,--and he did so. But if he had suspected what was to have come of it, I don't believe he would have gone; for it was little rest the poor bird got after that, between the two lovers, who kept him flying back and forth a dozen times a day with their fond messages under his wing.

At last, King Henry got wind of this romantic affair, and, instead of being angry; he was very glad, for he wanted King James to have an English wife. So he took him from prison, gave him Lady Jane in marriage, and restored him to his throne.

The poet-king and his noble queen were very kindly received in Scotland, and lived for some time very happily and peacefully, always dearly loving one another. But James found the kingdom in great confusion from misgovernment, and the common people very much oppressed. He bravely set himself to reform matters, trying to relieve and protect the poor, and restrain and humble the rich and powerful. His most difficult labor was to lessen the power of the great nobles, who were in fact almost kings themselves, on their own estates, and fought against each other, and even against the king, upon the slightest provocation, and often without any. They rebelled against this as being a spiteful action, and not, as it really was, a noble, kingly effort to benefit the _whole_ kingdom. They took further offence at the levying of some taxes for the support of the throne and to carry on the government. The people being poor, and not used to paying such taxes, were easily led to believe that it was King James's avarice, and not the necessities of the government, which caused them to be exacted. So, although he was so wise and good, and had the welfare of his people so much at heart, he came to be looked upon as unjust and tyrannical, by both the nobles and the common people; and this led to a conspiracy to bring about his death.

The leader in this conspiracy was one Sir Robert Graham, a bold, ambitious man, who was greatly embittered by having suffered an imprisonment at the command of the King. He also enticed into the plot the old Earl of Athole, by promising that his son, Sir Robert Stewart, should be made king in James's place. Many others joined the plot, upon various grounds, bringing with them their followers, to whom they pretended that their object was to carry off a lady from the court. Graham went off into the far Highlands, to complete his plan, and from thence he formally recalled his allegiance to the king, bidding him defiance, and threatening to put him to death with his own hand. In reply to this, King James set a price upon the head of Graham, to be paid to any one who should capture and deliver him up to justice; but he managed to keep himself safely concealed in the mountains.

For the Christmas following this, the poor, doomed king had appointed a feast to be held at Perth. As he was about to cross a ferry on his way to attend this feast, he was stopped by a Highland woman, who professed to be a prophetess. She called out to him in a loud voice, "My lord, the king, if you pass this water, you will never return alive." The king had read in some book of prophecy, that a king would be killed in Scotland during that year, and was much struck by this speech of the old woman.

Better would it have been for both himself and Scotland had he given heed to this warning, which the old woman doubtless had better authority than her claim to prophecy for making; but he turned jestingly to a knight of the court, to whom he had given the title of "the King of Love," saying, "Sir Alexander, there is a prophecy that a king shall be killed in Scotland this year; now this must mean either you or me, since we are the only kings in Scotland." Several other things occurred which, if attended to, might have saved the king; but they were all suffered to pass unheeded.

When the king arrived at Perth, there being no castle or palace convenient, he selected for his residence an abbey of Black Friars, which made it necessary, unfortunately, to distribute his guards among the citizens, and thus make comparatively easy the execution of the design of the conspirators.

On the night of the 20th of February, 1437, after some of the conspirators, selected for that purpose, had knocked to pieces the locks of the doors of the king's apartment, carried away the bars which fastened the gates, and provided planks with which the ditch surrounding the monastery was to be crossed, Sir Robert Graham left his hiding-place in the mountains and entered the convent gardens, with about three hundred men.

The king had spent the evening with the ladies and gentlemen of the court, in singing, dancing, playing chess, and reading romances aloud. All the court had retired, and James was standing before the fire, in night-gown and slippers, talking with the queen and her ladies, when the same Highland prophetess that had warned him at the ferry, begged to speak with him, but was refused, because it was so late.

Suddenly there was heard without the clash of men in armor, and the glare of torches was seen in the gardens. The king at once thought of Sir Robert Graham and his threat, and called to the ladies who were still in the room to keep the doors fast, so as to give him time to make his escape. After vainly trying to break the bars of the windows, he suddenly remembered that there was a vault running beneath the apartment, which was used as a common sewer; whereupon he seized the tongs, raised a plank in the floor, and let himself down. This vault had formerly led out into the court of the convent; but, most unfortunately, he had only a few days before ordered this opening to be walled up, because, when playing ball, the ball had several times rolled into it.

In the mean time, the conspirators were hunting for him from room to room, and at last they reached the one beneath which he was hidden. The queen and her ladies kept the door shut as long as they could, but you will remember that the cowardly conspirators had broken the locks and carried off the bars; and this brings us to one of the most devoted and heroic acts in Scottish history. Catherine Douglas, one of the noblest (both by rank and nature) and loveliest of the queen's ladies, when she found that the bar was gone, with that high spirit which has made her race wellnigh the most famous of Scotland, thrust her beautiful, naked arm through the staples, in the place of the bar, and thus kept the door closed till her arm was crushed and broken by the pressure of the brutal traitors on the other side. When this heroic defence was overcome, they burst headlong into the room, with swords and daggers drawn, beating down and trampling on the brave ladies who did their best to keep them back. One of them was in the act of killing the queen, but a son of Graham prevented it, by exclaiming, "What would you do with the queen? She is but a woman! Let us seek the king!"

After a careful, but unsuccessful search, they went away to look in other parts of the building. The king having heard their departure, and being very cold and uncomfortable, asked the ladies to help him out of the vault. But some of the conspirators had remembered this vault, and just at this moment they returned to search it. They tore up the plank, and there stood the poor, doomed king in his night-gown, and entirely unarmed; at which, one of them said, "Sirs, I have found the bride for whom we have been seeking all night."

First, two brothers, named Hall, jumped into the vault, with drawn daggers; but the king was a very powerful and active man, and he at once threw them both down, and was trying to get a dagger from them, when Graham himself leaped down. Then James, finding that defence was useless, asked him for mercy, and for a little time to confess his sins. But Graham replied, "Thou never hadst mercy on any one, therefore thou shall receive no mercy; and thy confessor shall be only this good sword." Whereupon he ran the king through the body. Then, possibly overcome with remorse, or fearing the consequences of the deed, he was for leaving the king to the chances of life and death; but the others fiercely called out that if he did not kill the king, he himself should die. At this, he and the two Halls dispatched the poor monarch with their daggers. After his death, sixteen wounds were found upon his breast alone.

And this was the end of the great and good James I. of Scotland, who, king though he was, died a martyr for the rights of the people.

The Journal from England to Ireland.

THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN.

On a bright morning, early in August, I left London, with my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. B., for a visit to Ireland, by the way of Wales and Holyhead. The first remarkable place we came to was the town of Chester, which stands just outside the Principality of Wales, and is so very ancient that antiquarians, who are often rather quarrelsome old gentlemen, have had many a hot dispute about its founder. Some say it was Leon Gaur, "a mighty strong giant," who first built caves and dungeons here, in which he confined all the poor stragglers he could catch, and fatted them for his table. Others affirm that it was old King Lear, whom you will sometime read about in Shakspeare, as being afflicted with a very testy temper and two wicked daughters, who were quite too sharp for him.

When the Romans had possession of Great Britain, they made Chester an important military station, under the name of Dova. There are many Roman remains shown here, to this day. Afterwards some of the Saxon kings held their court here. It is related that the proud Edgar once took a grand pleasure trip on the Dee, when his boat was rowed by eight tributary kings.

Under the Normans, the town grew fast in strength and importance, and, at last, took the name of Chester. Lupus, the first Earl of Chester, built a castle, rebuilt the walls, and made it the head-quarters of an army, maintained on the frontiers, to keep down the Welsh. That brave, half savage people kept attacking the town and setting fire to the suburbs; but were always beaten back with great slaughter and left so many of their dead behind them, that the cold-blooded English actually made a wall of Welshmen's skulls. So, in years after, when the young Welsh soldiers undertook to take the town; they were obliged, it may be said, to climb up over their fathers' and grandfathers' heads.

Chester is now a very interesting place, full of quaint, old-fashioned houses, with high pointed roofs and carved gables turned toward the streets, which are wide and straight. The walls remain nearly perfect--not preserved for defence, but as relics of the old fighting times.

The Dee is a strange looking river when the tide is low, for the sands stretch far out on each side. Mr. Kingsley, an English author, in a beautiful song, tells a sad story of a poor girl, who was sent one evening to call the cattle home across these wide sands. A blinding mist came up and the tide came in, but Mary never came home--only as she floated ashore the next morning, drowned.

A little way off the railway track, lies Maes Garmon, the scene of a great victory gained by the Britons over the Scots and Picts, in 429.

It was in the season of Lent;--the Britons had assembled in great numbers, in a valley amid the mountains, to listen to the preaching of St. Germanus and Bishop Lupus. These holy men preached with such extraordinary power, that thousands of rude warriors came forward, vociferously professing religion, and eager to be baptized. The enemy, hearing of this by their scouts, thought that here would be a fine opportunity to take them by surprise, and hastened to the spot to make the attack. But St. Germanus somehow got wind of their coming, and, taking the pick of the warriors; conducted them to a pass through which the heathen army must enter the valley. As soon as the enemy appeared, the Saint, lifting the rood in his hands, shouted three times at the top of his voice, "Hallelujah!" All his warriors repeated the cry, and the mountains echoed and reëchoed it, till their caves and forests seemed to be alive with lurking Britons. The bloody-minded heathens were so astonished and frightened by this strange Christian uproar, that they flung down their aims and ran for their lives! The Britons, instead of going on with their Hallelujahs, as I think they should have done, took after them with great fury--slew thousands and drove thousands into the river, where they were drowned. It was a queer way to win a battle that--scaring the enemy out of their wits by shouting holy words at them. I doubt whether the plan would succeed as well in our enlightened Christian times.

The next object of interest is Flint Castle, to which King Richard II. was carried as a prisoner, and where he met the banished Bolingbroke, who was soon to step into his royal shoes and dub himself King Henry IV.

Next was the town of Holywell--so called for the famous, and, it is said, miraculous well of St. Winifred, which it contains. If you inquire for this, you are conducted to a beautiful Gothic building, erected by the good Margaret, Countess of Richmond. Within this edifice is a large bath; and in and out of this, the maimed, palsied, and rheumatic, are constantly hobbling, crawling, or being carried. Over head, fixed in the roof, are hosts of old canes and crutches, placed there by cripples who say they have been cured by the waters. Doubtless this spring has medicinal properties, like many in our own country, and very likely many a poor creature is cured by simply bathing repeatedly in pure cold water--a treatment tried here for the first time in all their lives.

But who was St. Winifred?

All I know of her I get from a Roman Catholic legend, which I, being a Protestant, and because it seems to me absurd, cannot credit; but which many good, simple-hearted people find no difficulty in believing--especially such as have had a lame leg cured by the well, and have hung up a crutch in the shrine.

There was once, (says the legend,) a great lord, whose name was Thewith, and a noble lady, whose name was Wenlo, and they had one only daughter, whose name was Winifred. Now Winifred grew up to be a marvellously beautiful maiden, and her hand was sought in marriage by lords and princes far and near. But strangely enough, she would have nothing to say to any of them, and seemed to care nothing for the pomps and pleasures of the world. She was pious and charitable, and loved better to nurse and pray with the sick than to wear fine dresses, or dance with handsome young gentlemen. Perhaps she had visions, in which she saw and heard all the palsied old men and women, and all the miserable cripples that were, or ever would be in the world, shaking their heads and thumping with their crutches at her. At any rate, she resolved to live a single, devout, and charitable life, and for that purpose, placed herself under the care and instruction of her uncle, Breno, a very holy priest.

But it happened that Prince Caradoc, the son of King Alen--who _he_ was I don't know--saw her, and instantly fell desperately in love with her, and in the authoritative way which princes have, asked her to be his wife. Winifred said "no" very decidedly, and then he undertook to carry her off by force. But she escaped, and ran down the hill toward her uncle's cell. Caradoc followed, foaming with rage, and with his drawn sword in his hand. She ran very fast, but he soon overtook her, and with one blow of his sword cut off her head! The body dropped on the spot, but the head bounded forward and fell at the feet of Father Breno, who stood at the door of his cell. The good priest caught it up, and running to the body, put it on again--being very careful not to have it twisted toward one shoulder, or what would have been more awkward still, facing backward.

Immediately Winifred arose, as well as ever, only a little weak from loss of blood--and with nothing to remember her decapitation by, but a red line around her neck, which looked like a small string of coral beads, and was rather pretty than otherwise.

From that day it was settled that Winifred was a Saint, for on the spot where her head had rested, there bubbled up a spring of pure water, for the healing of the sick--particularly the crippled and rheumatic. Believers say that, in the Saint's time, the waters were more powerful than they are now. Then, after one dip, the palsied stopped shaking, the paralytic began talking, and cripples flung away their crutches while the maimed had only to thrust the stumps of arms and legs into the spring, to have beautiful new hands and feet sprout out before their eyes!

The part of North Wales through which we passed, is not so mountainous and picturesque as some other portions of the Principality; but it is very beautiful, even as seen in flying glimpses, from the railway carriage. We were very sorry that we could not stop to explore the lovely vales of Clwyd and Llangollen, and visit the little city of St. Asaph, where Mrs. Hemans once resided.

I longed to go and pay my respects to some of those grand, old mountains, that stood afar off, in their stern majesty, clothed with purple-blossomed heather, flecked with golden sunshine and crowned with gorgeous clouds, or silvery mists. The dark-waving foliage of many a shadowy glen and rocky gorge seemed beckoning to us to search into their lovely, lonely places, and many a glad rill and wild cascade seemed to call to us to come and look upon its unsunned beauty. But the swift locomotive remorselessly whirled us away from glen and gorge, and its rush and clang soon drowned those pleasant mountain voices of dancing rivulet and laughing waterfall.

We hardly caught a breath of the free, fresh air of the hills, in exchange for the long, brown train of heavy, hot smoke we left behind us;--in truth, puffing and whirling in and out of the Principality, as we did, I am almost ashamed to count Wales as one of the countries I have seen.

In England, no town, however large it may be, is called a city, unless it has a Bishop and a Cathedral, as the capital of an Episcopal See. Thus the great seaport of Liverpool is only a _town_, while St. Asaph, with but one street and eight hundred inhabitants, is a _city_.

The first Bishop of St. Asaph was St. Kentigern, a famous monk and monk-maker, and founder of monasteries. He had a disciple by the name of Asaph, whom he brought up to be a Saint.

Legends say that one day the good Bishop got severely chilled by remaining in his bath too long, and young Asaph, not having any shovel or tongs, took up some live coals in his hands, and carried them to his master, without burning himself at all. People said this was a very fair beginning for a Saint, and as he continued to improve, the church canonized him when he died, and the city and diocese were named for him.