MAIDENHEAD TO WINDSOR.
Maidenhead--Bray--Jesus Hospital--The Harbour of Refuge--Frederick
Walker--A Boat-race--Monkey Island--The River--Surley Hall--Boveney
Lock--Eton--Windsor--St. George's Chapel--The Castle--Mr. R. R.
Holmes--James I.--Surrey--The Merry Wives of Windsor.
The next scene in our shifting panorama of the gentle river will be
the fair stretch of bank and stream which extends from picturesque
Maidenhead to the winding shore from which rise the proud towers of
Royal Windsor. From its source, at which a little bright spring bubbles
up with a low, softly singing sound, from amid stones and moss and
grass, until it becomes merged into the immensity of ship-bearing
ocean, our Thames, unhasting but unresting, flows for ever onward
between source and sea.
"Thames! the most lov'd of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity."
And Denham adds a wish--
"O, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme;
Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full."
One of the charms of Thames is, that the calm river "glideth at its
own sweet will." It is no straight-cut, level, mechanical Dutch canal;
but it winds and curves, it widens and it narrows, according to its
own caprice and delight. And then, through what scenery it wanders!
Locks are erected, in order artificially to check its full-flowing
stream; but then Thames subdues even locks to himself, and makes
them--especially the old wooden ones--singularly picturesque. Man is
sometimes too many for him, but Thames, when allowed to have his own
way, will tolerate nothing about him that is not lovely as himself.
I love to think of the dear old river through all the seasons, and
under all aspects. I fancy the sun-bright day, and then "the dark, the
silent stream" of evening, when the untrembling shadows are so deep and
full; when the belated boat is itself a creeping shade, hardly seen,
but regularly audible through the sound of its beating rowlocks, and
the splashing fall of its rowing oars. And who can ever forget the
cool freshness of the dewy summer morning, before the sun's "burning
eye" gleams upon the shining surface of the watery sheen? Then the
still, dusky stream becomes "clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;"
and then, perhaps, moonlight sleeps silverly upon flood and banks, on
trees, and on dreamy habitations of slumbering men. The back-waters are
then all mystery, the birds have all gone to roost; sleep and silence
rest upon the resting river, the peace of night is over all, and still
the gentle river glideth ever to the sea.
[Illustration: BRAY CHURCH.]
The Thames has, however, undergone one disastrous change. It has become
crowded, noisy, vulgar. Its beauties remain what they ever were; but
its character has deteriorated. Gone are the pure peace, the cool calm,
the tranquil seclusion which--say twenty years ago--rendered it the
most charming haunt of the lover of Nature, of the poet, too much in
populous city pent, who sought an alterative of mental repose in most
lovely and most quiet scenery. An aged ghost, restlessly revisiting
the _cari luoghi_, must often find a change, great and sad, in the old
places in which life was lived in love and joy; and he who knew the
tranquil Thames in the old time, long ago, must find, in its brawling
loudness of to-day, a change which renders sad the heart. I remember
it when there were no steam-launches. Now, Captain Jinks, of the
_Selfish_, too often troubles the water, as he, with his friends, enjoy
themselves on the pure river which they pollute with their presence,
and disturb with their rowdyism. I am credibly informed that one Sunday
no less than nine hundred pleasure-craft passed through Boulter's
Lock. To what secret ait can the river nymphs now fly for rest and
delicate delight? Yes, the dear old river is sadly changed indeed, and
our joy in it is lessened and lowered; but its own inherent loveliness
is almost unspoiled; and we have to console ourselves by thinking, with
Coleridge, that--
"We receive but what we give,
And in our life alone doth Nature live."
[Illustration: MAIDENHEAD TO WINDSOR.]
Shaking off dull thoughts, let us stand for a moment on Maidenhead
Bridge, which was built in 1772 by Sir Robert Taylor. Maidenhead, or
Maidenhithe, is now almost the central point of those pleasure-lovers
who frequent the Thames. Looking up to Boulter's Lock, which suggests
very pleasant memories of Mr. Gregory's charming picture of it, we
see on high the white mansion of Cliefden, embowered in a wealth of
thickly clustering noble woods, which slope downwards from hill crest
to river bank, and present a long sky-line composed of every shade of
ever-varying greenness. Nearer to us, on the right, rise from out the
thick leafage the turrets and spires of Taplow Court. On the left is
the ivied Bridge House; on the right the old hostelry, the well-known
"Orkney Arms." In the golden days of Mr. and Mrs. Skindle the house was
white, but it is now of brand-new flaring red-brick, thickly pointed.
Before us, where the channel slopes round towards the Lock, we see a
large ait of alders. Gardens, flowers, trees, adorn the land, while
the water is crowded with boats and punts. Looking towards Bray, the
view is spoiled by the railway bridge, which is a leading case of
engineering _versus_ the picturesque. The railway bridge need not,
however, mar our pleasure much, for shall we not soon row under it on
our way to Windsor?
And now our boat awaits us at Mr. Bond's landing-stage, and we will
start on our pleasant little smooth-water voyage. In a few moments we
float under that wide-arched railway bridge which had hidden Bray from
us; and we see on our right hand an old church tower rising apparently
from out a cluster of tall, gaunt, windy poplars. We must land at Bray.
The church has been severely restored, but it presents specimens of
the historical architectural sequence of Early English, of Decorated,
and of Perpendicular. It contains good brasses (particularly one of
Sir John Foxle and his two wives), which range in date between 1378
and 1594; and it is celebrated for its only too well-known vicar, who
enjoys all the popularity which attaches to comic baseness. Stone and
flint are largely used in this church; but we eagerly pass on from
the churchyard to seek the Jesus Hospital, founded in 1627 by William
Goddard, as a refuge for forty poor persons. This beneficent refuge is
a very picturesque quadrangle of one-storey brick almshouses, and the
quadrangle encloses garden plots planted with flowers. It seems to be
well maintained and well cared for.
But the Jesus Hospital has an interest which transcends its own
picturesqueness and exceeds almost its own value. It is the scene
selected by a young painter of genius--Frederick Walker--as a
suggestion for his noble picture, the "Harbour of Refuge." Ruskin says,
"A painter designs when he chooses some things, refuses others, and
arranges all;" and Walker has chosen to do away with the gardens, and
to fill up the quadrangle with a lawn, a statue, and a terrace. The old
chapel he rightly retains. He has sacrificed fact to the higher truth
of ideal art. Walker was emphatically not one of those many painters
who have mistaken their vocation. He was a true and an original artist.
He saw a poetical suggestion in this retreat for poverty and for age;
and in the tender sadness of summer evening after sunset he has placed
a mower, whose scythe, like that of Time, is sweeping down things ripe
for death. The night, in which no man can work, is about to fall; and
a few figures, chiefly of sad, of aged, worn-out men and women, are
waiting until the angel of Death shall gather them to deathless peace.
The sentiment, the poetry of the picture, are most touching. Scene
and hour are felicitously selected, and the humanity which belongs to
this pictorial drama is finely conceived. World-wearied, life-worn
creatures, old, weak, poor, and sad, with the flicker of faint life
just lingering tremblingly, are those on whom the painter has laid
stress. They stand upon the low, dark verge of life, the twilight of
eternal day; and soon, very soon, shall they relax their weak grasp
of life, and go hence, and be no more seen. Such was the idea that
dominated Walker, and he has realised his idea. There is infinite
pathos in this work of tender melancholy and of exquisite loveliness.
I saw the window from which the painter made his study of the place--a
study of fact which his genius afterwards so nobly idealised. As we row
away from Bray, my mind is full of the picture and of its painter; and
a reminiscence of my dead friend, the gentle artist, Walker, rises in
my thought: a reminiscence which will, I hope, fitly find a place here.
At the time during which Fred Walker was staying at Cookham I was
very frequently rowing on the river. A dear old friend, Mr. E. E.
Stahlschmidt, was my constant companion, and we were much in the
habit of using a light outrigged pair-oar, which was a fairly fast,
though rather a crank boat, and which could carry a sitter who could
or would sit still and steer. We were staying at the "Orkney Arms"
at Maidenhead, and Fred Walker inhabited a cottage at Cookham. It
was arranged one day that we were to row our boat from Maidenhead to
Cookham, and were there to take Walker on board, and then to row him to
Marlow and back. The day was one at the end of May in 1866. How well I
remember that row! It seems to me that the same sun is shining to-day
that shone upon that day, so vividly does the fair by-flown time come
back to me. We passed by the Cliefden Woods, by Formosa, and through
Cookham Lock, and then rowed down the narrow arm of water which is
opposite to Hedsor, and joins the main stream a little below Cookham
Bridge. No doubt as to whether Walker were ready. The slight, active
figure was dancing about with delight as he hailed us. He was full of
joy, was quivering with excitement. The day was warm and fine, but the
sky was grand with towering cumulus cloud-masses, which might change to
nimbus clouds, and then mean rain. We went ashore, and strolled about
the pretty, quiet, old village, looking at, amongst other things, the
churchyard in which the great painter who was that day so much alive
now rests in death.
At length we were ready for our voyage, and we entered the boat. Walker
was steering, I was pulling stroke, and my friend was bow. It happened
that while we were stopping at Cookham, a randan boat was also waiting
there to start. This boat put off just when we did, and when both boats
reached the broad, open water, the randan proposed a race to Marlow.
Both my friend and myself would have treated such a proposal for a
scratch race with extreme contempt; but not so our coxswain. His keen
nature always craved excitement, and he eagerly accepted the randan's
challenge. I told him that it was all nonsense, and not worth doing;
but race he would. I then warned him that a race to Marlow was a long
one, and that I should pull a slow stroke, so that he must not be
surprised if the other boat got a long way ahead. I knew that my bow
could pull steadily any stroke that was set him. We were both rowing a
good deal at that time, and were in decent training. The preposterous
race commenced; a thing that would have been comic, but for the intense
eagerness and feverish excitement of our eminent but nervous little
coxswain. His eyes grew large, he breathed short, his face was pale.
If something of moment had depended upon the race he could not have
been more in earnest. One annoying result of his mental condition was,
that he kicked and stamped about, and rocked the boat. I cautioned, and
entreated him to sit quietly; but I preferred a request with which he
could only with difficulty comply.
As I expected, the randan started pulling with all its might; and soon
went away from us. Poor Walker was in despair. He saw the other boat
apparently gaining fast, and he was seized with twitchings. In a voice
weak with anguish, he implored us to "wire up, you fellows; wire up!
Oh, you don't know how far they're getting ahead. For Heaven's sake,
pull all you know!" He was depressed and dismayed, and was really
unhappy. I could not talk much, I could only growl out an occasional
adjuration to "be quiet!" an injunction with which he complied the
better because he thought that we were losing fast. I continued pulling
very steadily a long stroke of about twenty-nine, and was well backed
up. The other boat still went ahead, and poor despondent Walker was
almost in tears.
[Illustration: SURLEY.]
A mile or more is traversed, and I begin to fancy that I can hear the
rowing of the other boat. Presently Walker's frantic joy tells us that
we are gaining upon them, and he urges us to furious exertions. Of his
counsels we took no notice, but pulled steadily the old, long stroke.
Then we began to draw level with the antagonist, and soon I saw a bit
of the boat. We never looked up or altered the stroke; but Walker
chortled aloud, and could not restrain some expressions of exulting and
emotional _persiflage_. We tried in vain to dissuade him. He was too
excitable for such self-repression. At length I found my oar pulling
level with the scull of the randan, and a little later I was up to
the bow oar. The randan put on a spurt, but we drew quietly away,
and had passed them when the boats were a couple of miles from home.
Walker's triumph was irrepressible; his laughter was long and loud,
and I thought that he would have tumbled overboard. He _would_ mock
at the other boat. When we were well clear of the randan, I saw that
they were pumped out, and were splashing wildly. No further danger from
them. We increased our distance gradually, passed through the lock,
and had finished our luncheon at the "Compleat Anglers" before the
defeated randan arrived. During our meal, we were looking at the scene
of Walker's delicious picture, the "Marlow Ferry." He was delightedly
elated at the result of the little race--kept talking about it with the
eagerness of a happy child, and admitted gleefully how efficient the
long, quiet stroke was, especially in a hard four-mile pull against
stream. He was happy that day.
[Illustration: BOVENEY LOCK.]
Afterwards we walked out along the banks which look on Bisham Woods.
Then the born painter forgot the race, and became absorbed in his
deep, reverent love of nature. Supporting his chin upon his hands,
he lay down on the warm, dry turf, and his large eyes dilated as he
gazed, with inner rapture, upon that lovely scene, glowing in the light
of such a perfect sunny day. He had no gift of expression--except
with the brush in his skilful hand. He could never find expression
in words. I remember hearing him murmur then, as he gazed long and
lovingly upon a calm beauty that he could feel so well, "Opalescent!"
That was all he said; but his spirit had drunk in the joy, the peace,
the glory of the scene and time. He was probably seeing a picture;
though he did not lean to painting full sunlight. His cheek even then
was hollow; his large eyes were dangerously bright; his whole aspect
expressed his ambition, his self-consuming art-soul, his terribly if
exquisitely-strung nervous system, and fatally excitable temperament.
We did not then foresee that the frail frame, so sensitive and
delicate, would fail so sadly and so soon. His was, indeed--
"A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,
And o'erinformed the tenement of clay."
Now, by the sweet banks of the fair river that he loved so well, the
gentle and gifted painter sleeps his last sleep beneath the shadow of
the old Cookham church tower. The Thames is all the dearer to those
who have often seen it with Frederick Walker. A sacred memory is
blended with the river's loveliness.
We rowed him back that day to Maidenhead, and afterwards to Cookham.
For some time after he spoke often, and spoke joyously, of the little
scratch race which I have now endeavoured, with a sad, yet soft regret,
to recall to my own recollection, and to bring to the sympathetic
knowledge of my readers. Those who knew the man will ever love him;
those that did not know him personally may well love the ardent,
strenuous painter for the sake of his pure and gentle art.
The Thames, following Sheridan's advice, flows ever between its
banks--and then what banks they are! As our boat glides along the
sliding stream, we pass by many a fair and stately home of ancient
peace; we pass many a smooth lawn and garden gay with flowers; we pass
by rushes, willows, aits; we pass noble woods, and full meadows in
which the rich grass is studded with white and yellow flowers, while
sunlight is softly speckled by the calm shadows of lofty, feathery
elms. The tall elms have thick clusters of foliage glowing in sunshine,
and beneath these bright leaf-clumps sleep deep hollows of soft shade.
Yes, our Thames is emphatically a summer stream. We row by reeds, the
home of swans, the haunt of moor-hens; by islets which bear alders,
osiers, weeds, and rushes. Reflected in the water is the purple colour
of the wild foxglove, while the many bank flowers are interspersed with
meadow-sweet, with loose-strife, and with broad dock-leaves. On the
shining surface of the bright, calm water float lovely lilies, white
or yellow, which are connected by long, wavy stems with roots which
hold firmly to the ground at the very bottom of the river. We pass the
turbulent mill-stream, and the foam-fretted weir; we see picturesque
eel-bucks and shady backwaters. We wind and curve with the ever wayward
flood, and we find but few stretches which fail of beauty or are
wanting in peace. The Thames is the chosen haunt, too, of pleasant
painters and of pretty women; and to this choice combination the
grateful stream lends a charm as great as that which it receives from
such artists and such girls. Truly, our Thames is almost too fair to be
looked upon except on holidays.
Following the law of natural or elective affinities, fair women are
attracted by the fair river. I think that I never was upon the Thames
without seeing some specimen, or specimens, of female loveliness and
grace. Pretty girls belong as naturally as the swans do to our Thames.
It is a singular fact that natural objects of great charm allure to
themselves suitable women. Art does not, as a rule, draw to itself
much feminine youth and charm; but the Thames emphatically does so.
Look at that boat which we have just passed. What loveliness and love
in those two young, graceful girls who are being rowed, while one of
them--the one in the boating hat--steers. What eyes those were which
they rested for a moment upon our passing craft! Which do you prefer?
the one in the blue serge frock, or the taller one in the white robe?
I don't know; I could not decide; but I do know that we shall probably
meet with more distracting charmers before our little voyage shall
cease. Girls often steer very well, and sometimes they row, especially
with light sculls, very admirably. I have known pretty young ladies
who sculled deliciously, and who lent to the exercise a distinctively
feminine skill and grace.
The Thames is essentially a summer river; always with the reserve
of the delight of the sad and splendid hues of autumn in the woods.
The aspect under which the river shows to least advantage is that of
a bleak, grey day, when a coarse, cold, blusterous wind is blowing
loudly. Like a pretty woman, the fair Thames should never have its
surface serenity disfigured by passionate turbulence or wrinkled by
debasing anger. A rough, cruel wind disturbs the characteristics, and
distorts the appearance of the pure silver stream. The gentle, peaceful
river should ever be smiling and be calm. There is less objection
to the sullen grandeur of a heavy storm, dark with thunder, squally
with rain, while a gust of fierce wind sweeps beneath the sombre
cloud-heaps, and lashes up the troubled water. Yet the Thames should
preserve a chaste and delicate quiet. Sunny stillness, the majesty
of soft repose, are its true characteristics. In brutal, cheerless
weather, it looks like a fair face degraded by ignoble pain. Its sweet
essence should not be outraged by vulgar fury.
Now, just as we come to Monkey Island, a hush falls upon the sunshine,
a soft shade overspreads the heavens; and a summer shower, dinting the
glassy surface of the water with dimpling rain-drops, falls gently,
and ceases soon. Shine out, fair sun! And so it does again, till joy
returns with sunlight and with warmth. "Man's delight in God's works"
can find rapture in nearly every phase of nature. Monkey Island is an
inn built upon an islet. It comprises a pavilion erected by the third
Duke of Marlborough, in which certain monkeys are cleverly depicted by
one Clermont. We need not land there to-day.
Our boat floats ever downward with the stream, and we pass Down
Place, Oakley, the Fisheries, until we reach Surley Hall, an inn
much frequented by Eton boys, who come here for refreshment at that
happy age in which it is possible to lunch off olives and toffee. The
river, at this part of it, is not distinctively beautiful. Soon the
channel is bifurcated, one arm, over which is written the ominous
warning, "_Danger_," leading to the Weir, while the other arm conducts
to Boveney Lock. Once through this lock, and we are in the region of
Eton and of Windsor. Eton Chapel is on our left, while before us,
growing greater as we near it, Windsor Castle rises upon the sight in
ever grander proportions. Eton is the swimming and rowing school, and
we are passing the Brocas and those memorable playing-fields which
have trained so many boys into men of mark and leading. We will halt
for just a glimpse of Eton, and will stroll through the picturesque
quadrangles of noble fifteenth century brickwork; will glance at the
stone chapel; at the hall, library, and masters' houses; thinking
of Henry VI., who, in 1441, founded Eton, after having studied the
statutes of William of Wykeham at Winchester. Eton is no longer a
school for indigent scholars, as it was meant to be, and was, when
William of Waynflete was its first master. But we cannot linger long
at Eton, and we shall see again the chapel from the North Terrace of
Windsor Castle. Let us re-embark. Our voyage is nearly over. Already
the landing-place at Windsor; and lo! the great castle towers just
above us.
Windsor Castle is the noblest regal pile, the most splendid palace
castle in Europe; but it is seen to the best advantage when regarded
from a distance, and contemplated in its totality. Perhaps the grand,
irregular castle, which is perched upon a height, looks finest when
seen from below; and the towering mass of royal buildings certainly
appears at its best when seen from afar. There is no finer view than
that from the river. When the castle is seen from within, and when
its detail is looked at closely, there is much that is disappointing;
and the chief architectural blot is the abominable restoration of Sir
Jeffrey Wyattville, who was the architect of George IV. and of William
IV. Wyattville is credited with some respect for the interior, but his
external architecture is wofully bad. He has made the great quadrangle
in the Upper Ward a most dreary thing. His uniform, conventional Gothic
is mean and ugly in the extreme; and Wyattville adopted the hateful
system of pointing his stones with black mortar. For an illustration of
the bad effect of this evil work, it is sufficient to compare any of
Wyattville's restored towers with the recently and well-restored Clewer
or Curfew tower, in which white mortar is used, so that the stones
are not cut off into squares set in black borders. It were devoutly
to be wished that a competent Gothic architect should get rid of the
traces of Wyattville's fatal work. The cost would be great, but no
expense could be too heavy for restoring such an historical building to
architectural beauty and value.
On my visit to Windsor--a visit made for the purposes of this
article--I had the singular advantage of being conducted over the
castle by my friend, Mr. R. R. Holmes, Her Majesty's librarian. This
courteous and cultured gentleman has in the royal library curious old
plans of the castle in various stages of its creation; and no one can
speak with more authority about the great palace which Mr. Holmes loves
so well and knows so thoroughly. I cannot too strongly express my
gratitude to him for his invaluable assistance, so pleasantly rendered.
It is, of course, impossible in these narrow limits to present any
complete picture of Royal Windsor. Such a subject cannot be exhausted
in such an article. I can only suggest a few points of interest, and
merely endeavour to place those readers who may visit the Thames in
my wake in a position to obtain some hint and glimpse of part of the
romance, at least, of our most royal castle.
Windsor is associated with the records of all the reigns since the
Conquest. Its annals cover the Court life of all the centuries since
the Norman came to rule in England. It is linked with all our history,
and old as it is, it is ever young with the glow and poetry of romance.
The Saxon kings had a palace at Old Windsor, and Edward the Confessor
kept his Court there, but the site of that old royal dwelling cannot
now with certainty be determined. William the Norman moved to New
Windsor, but there is nothing visible in the present castle of an
earlier date than Henry II. The ancient entrance, with the sheath of
its portcullis plainly visible, shows clear traces of Henry II.'s work.
[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE. FROM ROMNEY LOCK.]
The great royal builders at Windsor whose works follow them, and are
still extant, are Henry II., III., Edward III., IV., Henry VII., VIII.,
and Queen Elizabeth, who was the foundress of the splendid North
Terrace. All Charles II.'s work has been swept away by that Wyattville
who did so much disastrous "restoration" for George IV. and William
IV. In Windsor was founded by Edward III., 1348, that noble and royal
Order of the Garter which sprang from a king's chivalrous homage to
a pure and lovely lady. William of Wykeham was, in 1356, surveyor of
the king's works, and dwelt in that Winchester tower which has been
so sorely spoiled by Wyattville; and Chaucer, also under Edward III.,
was "clerk of the repairs" at Windsor. One loves to fancy the sweet,
cheerful old poet riding, on some fair and fresh May morning, through
the royal park, while birds were singing and May blooms blossoming,
looking lovingly at nature, his lips wreathed with a serene and sunny
smile. Chaucer would, I think, ride gently on an ambling palfrey in
preference to backing a mettled steed. One likes dearly to connect
images of Chaucer and of Shakspeare with Windsor Park.
The St. George's Chapel is an ideal chapel for such a palace-castle
as Windsor. It is at once sumptuous and romantic, picturesque and
full of colour. It is a chapel for kings and knights; especially for
kings who were also knights and warriors. It is also the royal chapel
for the kingly Order of the Garter. The Choir is fitted up with the
stalls of the members of the Order, and above each stall hang banners,
helmets, crests, and swords. The chapel was built by Edward IV., and
was commenced in 1472, the architects being Bishop Beauchamp and Sir
Reginald Bray. All such old ecclesiastical edifices are sacred to the
dead as well as precious to the living. Beneath the feet of those who
worship there to-day rests the dust of kings; of those who, in by-past
times, worshipped also here while they were in the land of the living.
The tomb of the founder, Edward IV., is here; and the chapel covers the
graves of Henry VI., Henry VIII., Jane Seymour, and of Charles I. In
1813 the grave of Charles was opened, and the few who looked upon the
remains of the beheaded king could easily recognise the face and form
of Charles Stuart. Every visitor to Windsor is, however, sure to see
St. George's Chapel; and true it is, of this building, "that things
seen are mightier than things heard." We leave our readers to the
delight of seeing this poetically regal chapel.
John, King of France, taken at Crécy, David II. of Scotland, captured
at Neville's Cross, were prisoners of state at Windsor, and were
probably immured in the King John's tower; but the romance of
imprisonment in the castle centres round two other figures, to which it
seems worth while to devote some little space.
Two romances of chivalry and captivity are intimately connected with
Windsor. One is that of a king, the other that of an earl. The king
is James I. of Scotland, the earl is Surrey. After the murder, by
starvation, of his eldest son, the Duke of Rothsay, Robert III. was
minded to save and to educate his second son, James, by sending the
youth to France. The Scottish ship was captured by English vessels
off Flamborough Head, and the young prince was taken prisoner. This
occurred on the 13th of March, 1405. King Henry said, "his father was
sending him to learn French. By my troth! he might as well have sent
him to me. I am myself an excellent French scholar, and will see to his
instruction."
[Illustration: ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.]
And so began a gentle and generous captivity, which was certainly of
advantage to the poet king. The prince was provided with masters, and
had every luxury and indulgence. James was trained in all arts and
arms, became a scholar and a cavalier, and benefited by contact with
culture and civilisation.
While at Windsor, love came to James in a shape of singular romance and
charm, and he lived actually the adventure which Chaucer had devised
for his Palamon and Arcite. The fair Emilie was doing observance to
May, and so--
"She romid up and down, and as she liste
She gathrith flouris party white and rede,
To make a sotill garlande for her hede;
And as an aungel hevynly she song."
The "grete Tour, that was so thik and strong" was, we hear, "evyne
joynaunt to the gardyn wall;" and Emilie was walking and singing in
the garden, while the imprisoned Palamon gazed from his high dungeon
window in the tower,
"And so befell by aventure or caas,
That through a window, thik of many a bar
Of iron grete, and square as any spar,
He cast his eyin on Emilia;
And therewithall he blent, and cryid A!
As though he stongin were unto the herte."
Then Arcite gazes from the same window--
"And with that sight her beauty hurt him so,
That, if that Palamon was wounded sore,
Arcit was hurt as much as he, or more."
So far a royal poet's fancy. Now take a kingly fact; the fact being
also told in song--
"Now there was maid fast by the Touris wall
A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set,
Ane herbere greene, with wandis long and small
Railit about, and so with treeis set
Was all the place, and hawthorne hegis knet.
* * * * * *
"And therew^t kest I doun myn eye ageyne,
Quhare as I saw walkyng under the toure,
Full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne,
The fairest or the freschest zoung floure
That ever I sawe, methot before that houre,
For quhick sodayne abate, anon astert,
The blude of all my bodie to my hert.
"And though I stode abaiset tho a lyte,
No wonder was; for quhy? my wittes all
Were so ouercome wt pleasaunce and delyte,
Only through letting of myn eyen fall,
That sudaynly my hert became hir thrall
For ever, of free wyll; for of menace
There was no tokyn in hir suete face."
Then follows a young poet's lovely and rapturous description of the
fair vision, who was, indeed, the Lady Jane, or Johanna Beaufort,
daughter of John, Earl of Somerset, and granddaughter of John of Gaunt.
Their loves prospered, as they deserved to do, and James married Lady
Jane, at Windsor; the hero of Agincourt being then our king. James was
crowned King of Scotland in 1424, and the lovely lady that he loved so
well was his Queen.
In 1437, at the Abbey of Black Friars at Perth, James, who strove in
vain to rule his turbulent and brutal nobles, was murdered by Sir
Robert Graham; what time the heroic Catherine Douglas tried to bar the
door against murder, and had her fair arm broken, while the brave and
loving Queen was wounded by the assassins.
Surely this royal love romance may give us sweet and tender fancies as
we gaze upon the gardens and the towers of Royal Windsor. The story is
a true Thames episode.
We may glance for a moment at another noble captive in Windsor--at the
Earl of Surrey, likewise a poet; and, indeed, the poet who was the
first writer of English blank verse. Impetuous of temper, heady of
will, the gallant Surrey developed a lawless ambition which, on the
21st of January, 1547, led him to the Tower block. He was, says Mr.
Robert Bell, "formed out of the best elements of the age, and combined
more happily, and with a purer lustre than any of his contemporaries,
all the attributes of that compound, and, to us, almost fabulous
character, in which the noblest qualities of chivalry were blended with
the graces of learning and a cultivated taste. It might be said of him
that he united in his own person the characteristics of Bayard and of
Petrarch;" and yet all these fine qualities led only to the scaffold.
Surrey is connected with Windsor because he was educated and spent his
youth there, together with the Duke of Richmond, base son of Henry
VIII., who married Surrey's sister; and, further, because, in his day
of misfortune, he became a sad prisoner in the castle in which he had
spent so many joyous youthful days. Surrey was contracted when he was
sixteen, and was only twenty when he became a father. He married, in
1535, the Lady Frances Vere, daughter of John, Earl of Oxford; but
romance links his name for ever with that of the fair Geraldine, who
was the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, ninth Earl of
Kildare, and of Margaret, daughter of Thomas Gray, Marquis of Dorset.
Geraldine, when Surrey died at the age of thirty, was but nineteen
years of age. It was the fashion of that day for gallants to wear the
sleeve of a mistress of the imagination; and Surrey's passion for the
fair young girl was probably fantastic and partly feigned. The fair
child was an adopted ideal of a knightly poet's passion. In the only
one of Surrey's poems in which he speaks openly of her, he says:--
"From Tuscane came my lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat.
The western isle whose pleasant shore doth face
Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat.
Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast:
Her sire an earl; her dame of prince's blood.
From tender years, in Britain doth she rest,
With kinges child; when she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen;
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight.
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine;
Windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind; her virtues from above;
Happy is he that can obtain her love!"
The Lady Elizabeth was one of the ladies in attendance on Mary Tudor,
and Surrey probably went with the Duke of Richmond to Hunsdon, there to
visit the Lady Mary; and on that visit he first saw Geraldine. Later,
when a captive, Surrey sings--
"So cruell prison howe could betide, alas,
As proude Windsor, where I in lust and joye,
With a kinges son my chyldysh years did pass,
In greater feast than Priam's sonnes of Troy."
The contrast was indeed cruel between Windsor as a palace and Windsor
as a prison. Scott, like a true poet, lays hold of the romance of
Surrey's reputed love for Geraldine, and entrusts to "Fitztraver of
the Silver Song" that almost matchless ballad which tells how the wise
Cornelius, across the ocean grim, showed to the gallant Surrey the
vision of the peerless Geraldine. Who, asks Walter Scott--
"Who has not heard of Surrey's fame?
His was the hero's soul of fire,
And his the bard's immortal name,
And his was love, exalted high
By all the glow of chivalry."
Our fancies are stirred, as we gaze on proud Windsor, by the thought of
Surrey.
What a view it is from the round and regal tower, over which, when our
loved and honoured Queen is in state residence, floats our "glorious
Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride!" Let us mount with our artist to
the summit of the keep. The view is wide and winsome. Surely earth has
not many things to show more fair, though the prospect is distinguished
rather for soft beauty and placid loveliness than for grandeur or for
wildness. I have stood on the summits of Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn,
and of many another Alpine peak, and know well that there are outlooks
in nature more sublime, more austere, more soul-stirring; but yet
this English landscape (which includes twelve fair counties), so
peaceful, soft, and smiling, has its own distinctive charm. The bright
river, gleaming in sunlight, winds and stretches far through all the
calm scene. There stand stately English trees; and the view includes
broad green meadows, hedgerows, low, gentle hills in the far purple
distance. It is a typical English landscape scene; and then over all
there is to-day the splendour of a serene summer sky, and the glory of
fantastic, sunlit cloud masses.
I took a great interest in finding out the exact sites of the
imprisonment of those two noble and romantic captives who suffered
imprisonment here. Kings John and David were, as we have seen, probably
immured in the King John's tower, which is a prison. The Round Tower,
as Mr. Holmes points out, never was a prison, though a wooden pillar
is (if you ask for it) absurdly shown as the one to which Prince James
was chained. The prince chained! Why, his was an honourable and a most
gentle captivity. He was rather guest and pupil than prisoner; and
Mr. Holmes leads, with no uncertain step, to a chamber (now used as
a bedroom) in the second floor of Edward III.'s tower, which was the
room of the prince, and in which is still the window from which the
poet-prince looked into the garden--not now existing in its former
state--and saw the Lady Jane. This point may be considered as set at
rest: and it is very pleasant to be able to identify James's chamber,
to look out of his window, and to see, with the eye of imagination, the
fair sight that he saw in the garden beneath. Of the place of Surrey's
captivity no record or tradition remains, but the ambitious earl, who
strained after the crown, was surely held in more rigid confinement
than was James. Surrey was possibly immured in the King John tower.
And now we leave the castle; but before we quit Windsor we will stroll
into the park, and try to summon up some fair fancies connected with
Shakspeare and with Elizabeth.
It is a charming legend--even if it be only a legend--which tells
us that Queen Elizabeth (_El Iza Beata_) when at Windsor, commanded
Shakspeare to write a play in which Falstaff would be shown in
love--that is, in such "love" as he was capable of--and that the
result of the royal order was the _Merry Wives_, surely the most
genial, and the fullest of human humours, of all comedies. It seems
certain that the first version of this "most pleasaunt and excellent
conceited comedie" was written very rapidly, because the second version
is so much longer, and differs so widely from the earlier play. In
consequence of the prevalence of the Plague in London, the Court, in
1593, lay long at Windsor, and there can be little doubt that the first
version of the play was commissioned and acted at Windsor in that year.
It is a delightful theme for the imagination to picture a sunny morning
on which the royal cavalcade rode through Windsor Park. Essex and
Southampton were there; and Shakspeare, no doubt, rode, for a time at
least, by the bridle of great Elizabeth. The words then spoken between
queen and poet we cannot recall; but as we read the lovable _Merry
Wives_, we enjoy some of the results of the conversation. So genial
is the comedy that even Sir John's base humours do not excite moral
indignation. He fails so hugely. Beaten, baffled, and befooled, the
merry but honest wives have the laugh of him, and we feel the spirit of
the pleasant jest when Mrs. Page proposes to
"Laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;
Sir John and all."
We fill in fancy some street in Windsor with those quaint old gabled
houses, set in fair gardens, in one of which Master Page, in another
Master Ford, lived; and can reconstruct the "Garter" Inn;[5] we see the
fields near Windsor in which the mock duel does not come off, and we
can imagine to ourselves the farmhouse near Frogmore at which pretty
Mistress Anne Page was feasting. We can follow the basket of washing
to the "whitsters in Datchet Mead," and can almost recognise the muddy
ditch by the Thames into which the unchaste knight was thrown. As
regards the question whether the date of the play be the time of the
wild Prince and Poins, or the contemporary day of great Elizabeth,
one little passage makes the point clear. When Falstaff wants to use
the chimney as a hiding-place, Mrs. Page says, that they always use
to discharge their birding-pieces up the chimney. Now, in the days
of Henry IV., there were no "birding-pieces," while the part country
gentleman, part opulent burgher of Elizabeth's time, especially in such
a place as Windsor, would possess a fowling-piece. The old characters
of Pistol, Bardolph, Nym, are only used because they seem to be the
natural hangers-on of Falstaff; and we may safely assume that we are
reading, or seeing, a comedy of manners belonging to Shakspeare's own
day.
Did the Queen, Shakspeare, and the Court ride by that oak of Herne the
hunter, who was
"Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest"?
Round that oak, in Windsor Park, occurred the last revenge of the merry
wives, after which foul old Sir John is bidden to
"Serve God, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you."
We may enjoy a most delightful time of fair fancies in Windsor forest
while we think of those
"Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call'd to enact
My present fancies;"
and the charming crowd of characters in the dear _Merry Wives_ fade
like an insubstantial vision, as we unwillingly leave our ramble in the
park, and saunter down, with imaginations sweetly and subtly stirred,
to our waiting boat. It is good to leave Windsor with minds filled with
creations of our Shakspeare in his sweetest and his gentlest mood.
/H. Schütz Wilson/.
[Illustration: PROCESSION OF THE BOATS, ETON.]