LONDON—WINDSOR—STOKE POGES.

We are now, at 10.30 a. m., back in London, after a ride of two hours from Cambridge. The old charm of London still remains. It never would grow old. We have two days left, before we start for the continent, and employ them to the best advantage we can. The first, and a very natural act, is to go to our banker's in Philpot Lane, for letters and papers from home, and also to obtain some of that, the love of which one of old thought the root of all evil. Next, home to our old lodgings at No. 46 Woburn Place, for reading documents and writing replies. Next we take an omnibus ride down through High Holborn to Newgate Street, and alight near St. Paul's. It's full time that we go there again, and to worship in our own way. Delighted even more than at first, we find ourselves unable to comprehend it. First views are never as comprehensive as later ones.

A feast of contemplation here, and then a walk through Cheapside, to view once more the Fire Monument. It stands in Fish Street and was built to commemorate the great fire of 1666. In design it is first a platform, on which is a pedestal 21 feet square, with a moulded base 28 feet square. It has a bold cornice, and all, to the top of this, is 40 feet high. On the top of this pedestal is a Roman Doric column, and above all is a vase, or urn, with what was designed to represent a flame issuing out of its top. The flame is gilded, and the entire monument is 215 feet high, or but five feet less than ours at Bunker Hill. It is so located that, should it be laid down lengthwise in a certain direction, extending from its present location, it would exactly reach the spot at which the fire originated in Pudding Lane.

Here we stop by the way to remark that in London the idea—and no bad one—prevails of retaining old familiar names. Philpot Lane is yet the cognomen for the place of eminent bankers. Mincing Lane is the seat for certain kinds of merchandise traffic. Fish Street retains its name as at the time of the fire; and Piccadilly, Cheapside, Paternoster Row, High Holborn, and Crutched Friars are, to most Americans, even as common as household words.

The monument is built of the white Portland sandstone; and inside, Bunker Hill Monument like, are circular stairs, 345 in number, leading to the iron gallery around on top of the capital of the great column. This gallery was inclosed some years ago with iron-work from the top of the rail, up some 8 feet, and covered at the top, forming an iron cage to prevent people from throwing themselves off with suicidal intentions, as was at times done. The great pedestal at the base contains in its four panels bas-reliefs, commemorative of the fire and events connected with the structure's erection. The monument is open daily, and for a small fee visitors are admitted to the gallery cage, from which very commanding views are had of the larger part of Old London, as well as the River Thames, and many outlying places in all directions. As from the top of the cathedral, the prospect is charming, and one is delighted as he views and contemplates this largest city of the world, more than two thousand years old, spread out below him; and how as by magic comes the thought that, from this elevated position, kings, queens, the most renowned ones of the old world and the new, have, as we are doing, looked out upon and been lost in contemplation of the scene!

The monument was built from designs furnished by Sir Christopher Wren. It was begun in 1671, and finished in 1677. It is justly esteemed as the noblest column in the world, being 24 feet higher than the Trajan Column at Rome. Next a walk to London Bridge, where, as Pepys would have said, "by boat to Westminster." As stated in our other remarks on London, this is an exceedingly pleasant way to travel from one part of London to the other; the boats ply often and thousands thus travel. And next, another tour through the grand old Abbey, and about the vicinity of Parliament House and Westminster Bridge; and so the day was well filled up. As at first, very interesting are these London rambles.

Friday, we are ready to take steam-cars for the famed city of

WINDSOR,

for which we start at 9 a. m. The ride of 23 miles is through well cultivated lands. The best of England are these fine suburbs. For 2,000 years have these same fields been cultivated, but they seem new and as virgin soil to-day. They are not povertized by continual takings-off and no returns, but manures are applied, constant attention is paid, and grand results come.

At length arrived, we find ourselves in the pretty rural city, with a population of 11,769. It is situated on the right bank of the Thames, and presents a very neat appearance, with a smart enterprising condition everywhere apparent. The streets are well paved and lighted, and while there is little that is antique to be seen, yet it is interesting from its look of substantial and finished appearance. Here, at the seeming centre of the place, or at least in the midst of a solid population, is the famed Windsor Castle, and of course this is what we have especially come to see. It is the occasional residence of the Queen, and the buildings cover twelve acres of ground, being surrounded by a terrace on three sides, which is 2,500 feet in length. They stand in an enclosure called the Little Park, which is four miles in circumference, and connected on the south by a long and remarkably fine avenue of trees with the Great Park, which is 18 miles in outline; and then again west of this is the Windsor Forest, having a circuit of 56 miles. Windsor has long been a seat of residence for royal blood, for here resided the Saxon kings before the Norman Conquest. The present castle however is less ancient, as it was founded by William the Conqueror, who died Sept. 9, 1087. It was, however, largely rebuilt by order of Edward III., under the supervision of William of Wykeham, the celebrated Bishop of Winchester, who was architect of the remarkably elegant nave of his cathedral, and died Sept. 24, 1404. The antiquity of the castle is from these dates readily seen; and we may add that one of the reasons which induced us so often in these articles to give dates of the death of important individuals, was to enable the reader to have data as regards the age of buildings, or of the time of occurrence of events narrated. Various repairs were made after that; but, so far as general arrangement and design are concerned, no changes were made for centuries, and they so continued till 1824-8, when new work was done and all put in complete condition under the superintendence of Sir Jeffrey Wyatville.

Visitors are freely admitted to the grounds and the castle, and a company is always present, thousands availing themselves of the privilege. We enter through the gateway from the city thoroughfare, which, as stated, is here very populous, and is even a commercial part of the place.

Not far inside the grounds, which here are simply macadamized, with no tree or shrub or grass lawn present, we first visit the grand St. George's Chapel, strongly reminding one of the chapel of King's College at Cambridge. The interior is magnificent, with lofty columns and arches, splendid traceried-stone, vaulted ceiling, a rich altar-screen, and stall-work of oak. It has no transepts, but, like the prototype named, is one long, high, and not over-wide room.

Beneath the chancel is what is called the Royal Vault, in which are the remains of Henry VI., died 1471; Edward IV., 1483; his queen, Margaret of Anjou, 1481; Henry VIII., 1547; Jane Seymour, his wife, 1537; Charles I., 1649; George III., 1820; his wife, Charlotte Sophia, 1817; George IV., 1830; his daughter, the Princess Charlotte; and later, the Duke of Kent, the Duke of York, William IV. and his queen, and other members of the royal family.

"Very royal dust this, and in great quantity," says an intense and high civilization; but, stript of its outward insignia, the royalty has gone, for no more is their dust respected by the great laws of nature, than is that of the beggar who sues for an humble pittance at the church door. The great destroyer makes all equal. Death is indeed a great leveller. The king in his marble sarcophagus is a beggar; and the beggar, uncoffined, it may be, in his common earth-grave, is a king. Harriet Martineau has well said:—

All men are equal in their birth,
Heirs of the earth and skies;

All men are equal when that earth
Fades from their dying eyes.

At the rear of St. George's is an ancient chapel, but of late refitted on the interior as a mausoleum, or place of burial, of the late Prince Albert, and in a style of magnificence rarely seen and never excelled. This was done at the expense and order of Queen Victoria. The finish around the room, for a quarter of its great height, is of very elaborate workmanship of marbles of various colors; and above this are beautiful Gothic windows of painted glass, the most brilliant and costly in the kingdom. The room may be 40 feet wide, 75 feet long, and 40 feet high; and at one end is the altar, and a most elegant cenotaph to the especial memory of the worthy Prince. Astonishingly magnificent is all.

We pass from the chapel to the great Central Tower. This is on a mound of earth, and may be fifty feet in diameter and as many feet high. From the top may be seen miles of the surrounding country, and all is indescribably grand. Off some miles, and quietly nestling, embowered in trees, is Newstead Abbey, where Byron received his rudimentary education; and in another direction, five miles away, are two objects of remarkable interest. One is the famous Eton School, one of the celebrated academical institutions of England. The other, to us Americans, if the statement is true, is a place yet more interesting,—the mansion-house, with its ample grounds, once occupied by William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania. Yet a mile beyond is another spot of great fame and renown, the burial-place of the poet Thomas Gray; and so in sight is the identical old church, to which he refers in his Elegy:—

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping Owl does to the Moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

A guide, stationed on the flattish roof of the great tower, is glib of tongue, telling of this and that thing to be seen. As he goes around with his company the entire circuit of the parapet, a part of the statement is that he has been stationed here now for eleven years. He likes Americans, he says, and can tell them the moment they appear in view. He thinks them very intelligent; but is amused, he adds, when he asks them where William Penn was buried, for not a man or a woman of them knows. We of course were a source of amusement to him, and were pleased to be the innocent cause of his mirth. Anything, consolingly we thought to ourselves, to break the monotony of his life; and so we were happy in the thought of the contribution we had made, and so unwittingly.

Down from this, and a walk about the premises, to here and there look over the walls, on the scenes outside and below. A guide came up, and, informing us that he was one of the appointed ones, we submitted; and so he became the fifth wheel to our coach. We were, however, taken in,—the first time and the last in our journey. When we went to the door of the castle proper we found he must remain outside, or we must pay for his admission. We thought we could find our way to the gate without him, and so we were rid of our encumbrance, though not without a tilt of large words in strong Saxon.

That door passed, we were in the waiting-room; and soon our turn came, and that of about a dozen others, to make a tour of the place. Certain rooms only are open to visitors. A portion of the structure is devoted to the private uses of the Queen and the royal family; but the reception-room, banquet-hall, and many semi-private rooms, most elegantly furnished, are open to visitors, and the articles exhibited are many of them of great value, having belonged to former kings and queens. The guide passes through these rooms with his company, explaining, as he passes, that this room is used for such a purpose, or was occupied as a sleeping-room by King So-and-So, or his queen, and that the furniture is now precisely as it was at the time of their death.

All is very interesting. But never is the situation or fact fully comprehended. To enjoy the sights and be entertained in these royal apartments, once so very private, and into which no common visitor was permitted to enter, is one thing; but to realize the great fact is another. How strange that these domicils of kings, and of the high blue-blood of the great realm of England, should come to be museums, gratifying the curiosity of American republicans, the very antipodes of all that is royal or monarchical.

After a very pleasant stay inside the buildings, we take a look at the exterior and the grounds. The latter, so far as seen by the visit we made, were simply bare, macadamized squares, but just outside the walls, on the other sides, are the great and elegant park-grounds, arenas, gardens, ponds, waterfalls, fountains, fine old tree-shaded walks; and every production that brain can devise or wealth procure has been lavished on these acres. The building called Windsor Castle is a vast deal more than a single edifice; and so, in considering it, let not that mistake be made. It is composed of many parts, or portions, with large open courts, or squares, wholly or partially surrounded by the buildings. The latter are quite irregular in outline, and none of them are very high; but there are a plenty of square and round towers of different sizes, with battlements around their tops, of castle-like finish, and a variety of windows, to give it the castle look. If any mistake was made by us in advance, it was to anticipate too compact a building, and not enough of great extent,—one too old and ancient in appearance, and of too high an elevation. From the rise of ground on which the castle stands, the whole is conspicuous from many points on the railway, for miles distant; and the view of the granite-like colored structure—clean, large in extent, very irregular in outline of upper part as seen from these points, the whole beautifully embosomed in thick foliage of trees—presents a charming effect. When the Queen is present, which is for a few weeks at a time at intervals, a large flag floats from the top of the great tower, and that is evidence of her royal presence.

We pass out of the great gate and are again in a seemingly republican street, and things resume an American aspect and appearance. Another dreamish condition we have been in, and now seem back on the substantial ground of common humanity and, we may add, common sense. We breathe freer, and as we think the whole scheme over, of the work doing by John Bright, by Gladstone, and a host of others,—when we remember that now for the first time in English history all of the people, think, talk, and act,—we know the outcome will be good and an advance be made.

Having been alternately filled with admiration and disgust,—with indescribable charm and wonder, and with grand anticipations of the good time coming,—we say "Another dream-day has come and is passing," and we reluctantly move on and ruthlessly tear ourselves away from these bewitching conditions and contemplations; and now at 3 p. m. are ready for a visit to the famed Stoke Poges. Ever memorable, and to all coming time it will be, as the spot made classic by Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard."

At 3.30 p. m. we leave the castle gate, and negotiate for our team to Stoke Poges, a place of very uneuphonious name, but classic and known the civilized world over. Teams for hire are in abundance, and are with their drivers in waiting for employment. The appearance of a stranger, especially if an American, is a signal for an attack. We had long since learned the art of management of a case of the kind at Montreal and Quebec in our own country, and the flank movement is to appear to be in want of anything but a team. One must work up alongside the boundary line of fact and truth; and the tendency is to at times cross it and get over on the other side. When taking most notice, and doing best work of selecting, the Yankee, to appearance, never did hire a team, and never will. To make the story short we will say that without a beating down as regards price, but to accommodate the driver, who was spoiling to carry us for $3.00,—when at first he, with all his fellows, made a mistake, and asked $5.00,—we were at length seated in his team; and, while the army of other drivers were retiring crestfallen, were being trundled in the heavy English top-buggy, top turned back, and were being grandly transported through the pretty streets of Windsor, out among the fine gardens, and half-metropolitan, half-suburban scenery, on our way to Stoke.

Never will be forgotten that inspiring ride, for all the way it was through charming scenery. At times over broad thoroughfares, in which the refinement of a high civilization had for 500 years concentrated; then into narrow lanes finely hedged on their sides, shaded by grand old elms and ever-fragrant lindens, sweet in their good foliage and new blossoms; and so on and on—new scenes charming, the clear air invigorating, thoughts of Old England inspiring—we, after the ride of three miles, are at one of the great seats of academical education—the famed Eton School, as well known, and for centuries it has been, as any college at Cambridge or Oxford. This, and that at Newstead Abbey, the old London St. Paul's, the Blue-Coat School, and the Westminster one, are a part of England's history and are as renowned as the soil itself. What a charm there is to the story of Eton and Rugby! The grounds are ample, well laid out, and contain fine old trees and shrubbery,—few or no houses encroaching, or in the neighborhood; the whole territory has a very retired and rural appearance. There is nothing however of the very antique or ancient look such as we anticipated. As a whole, all was to us, with our pre-conceived idea, too modern and new. The buildings are of brick. They are somewhat broken in outline and design, but suggested a factory-like appearance. How many poets, philosophers, and men in all the learned walks of life here fitted for the great universities! How very renowned and sacredly classic are these grounds! We would stop by the way and enumerate, but must forbear and pass on to the more immediate object of our tour; for off in the distance, charmingly embowered in trees, is the sharp-pointed spire of the poetically immortalized church, resting on its "ivy-mantled tower." The spire is built of a whitish stone and is very sharply pointed. How alluring and attractive it is, how entrancing is the thought that about it, and so near us, is the "yew tree's shade," of which the pensive poet speaks!

We ride on, and pass down into the old lane leading to Lord Taunton's park; we go into his carriage-path, and how charming the finish of everything, and what sublime repose! We pass along and arrive on our left at a pleasant, homelike cottage, with a neatly kept yard in front. How familiar the scene! Honest old hollyhocks, delicate petunias, gorgeous marigolds, sweet mignonette, and such things as are intensely American, and countryish at that, are in profusion. The arrival of a team—and many come every day—is the signal for a buxom, rosy-cheeked damsel to come out of the cottage and open the gate. No remarks by her. She does not comprehend the scheme. All is mechanically done, and is a result of usage and every-day life. If she thinks at all, it is to wonder why the visitors come. A lesser thing never comprehends a greater. To her, as to any one without a proper standard, as Wordsworth said,—

A primrose by a river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

The fence across our road, of which she opens the gate, is of open-work, iron, plain paling, and encloses one side of the churchyard of which Gray wrote:—

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

It is an enclosure of perhaps two acres, and simply fenced in from a large grazing-field. The place is by no means solitary in appearance, though no house save the cottage is near it, or in near view, for it is out in the full sunlight, and has for company and suburbs, fine groves, lawns, distant hills, and every accompaniment of good rural character. As Whittier says of our New England burial-grounds,—

With flowers or snowflakes for its sod,
Around the seasons ran,

And evermore the love of God
Rebuked the fear of man.

The ground inside has a very clean and well-kept, though not especially ancient look. There are many gravestones, and but few monuments. A wide modern path, or carriage-way, leads from the gate to the church itself. The latter, which is perhaps 500 feet from the gate, has a very ancient look. It is low, and built of small flintstones. The roof is very high and presents two gable-ends, with a large Gothic window in each; at the other end two gables are also shown, with one some higher than the other. The tower is at the extreme right of the building, up at the farther end, and outside of and against the high part before named. It is square, quite large for its height, having a battlement around the top, and every part of it is so covered with ivy as to expose no portion of the stonework to view. The spire above this is very clean, and of a whitish stone. A large portion of the church itself is covered, or mantled, as Gray expressed it, with ivy; and it may here be added that the ivy is of the common, dark, substantial-leaved kind that we so commonly cultivate in pots, or, in the warmer parts of our country, on the outside of buildings. Who can stand in this place, gazing on this ancient church as the poet Gray many a time did, and not think of that terse and expressive line of the great poem, where he speaks of the quietness of the evening:—

And all the air a solemn stillness holds.

The famed "yew-tree's shade" is here, for at our left, as we pass up the great path, or driveway, and near the end of the church which is on our right, with little more than the path named between it and the great tree, the latter stands sentinel-like, as it has stood for a century,—its dark, sombre, fanlike horizontal branches reaching almost to the ground, and throwing pall-like shadows over our way. The side walls of the enclosure on two sides, and near the church, are of brick, and their tops and parts of their sides are grandly covered with ivy; and to the right, in the adjoining lot, are trees and thick shrubbery; and we are again reminded of Whittier, where he says of one of our country burial-grounds:—

Without the wall a birch-tree shows
Its drooped and tasseled head;

Within, a stag-horned sumach grows,
Fern-leaved, with spikes of red.

Under the large window of the left gable-end, the one nearest the road, and up five or more feet from the ground, is a marble slab, some fifteen inches high and two feet long, which bears the following inscription:—

Opposite to this stone, in the same tomb upon which he has so feelingly recorded his grief at the loss of a beloved parent, are deposited the remains of Thomas Gray, the author of the Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. He was buried August 6, 1771.

The mother was memorable for her sorrows and her devotion to her family. Her husband was selfish, morose, passionate, and tyrannical. The mother kept a little china-shop to help educate her son. He wrote, for her tombstone in this burial-ground, as follows:—

Here sleep the remains of Dorothy Gray, widow: the careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her.

Beautiful in all its conditions was this churchyard; and while we were here the birds sang merrily, and the sounds of summer and the odor of a new fresh vegetation made it a paradise complete. That quiet and repose, usual to a spot so removed from the "busy haunts of men," this hamlet of the dead, seemed to underlie all, and the "calm retreat" was all we had anticipated.

As we pass out of the gate and into the outlying field, to the left is a stately stone monument, not long ago built to the poet's memory. It is of good design, and on it are befitting quotations from his poetry; but after all we were sorry to see it. The churchyard, the church itself, the ivy-mantled tower, the Elegy, these are his better monument. He needs no other. It were foolish to "gild refinÈd gold or paint the lily." It is well to say of these, as was said for the great architect of St. Paul's, Sir Christopher Wren, "If you seek his monument, look around you."

It should be stated, in passing, that another spot claims, and with some little show of reason, that it, and not this, is the famous "country churchyard;" but, after giving thought to the matter, it appears that till new evidence to the contrary is produced, this spot will have the honors.

As the Elegy has made this place celebrated, and immortalized its name as well as that of its composer, it may be well to say that when Gray had completed it, he handed his manuscript to friends, but he himself doubted its merits, and conscientiously thought it weak and too sentimental. Others, however, saw its value, and, to the author's astonishment, so great was its fame, that on being published, it was soon translated into Greek, Latin, Italian, Portuguese, French, German, and even into Hebrew.

He was born in Cornhill, London, Dec. 26, 1716. On the 30th of July, 1771, while at dinner, he was attacked with convulsions, and died a few days after, in his 55th year.

Of his memorable prose remarks we give but one selection, which shows the industrious habits and inside life of the man. He said:—

I am persuaded the best way of living is always to have something going forward. Happy are they who, if they cannot do anything greater, can create a rosebush or erect a honeysuckle.

As we think of this we are reminded of the like opinion held by the great Daniel Webster, who entertained so much regard for the Elegy that he had portions of it read to him but a few hours before his departure. When the statesman was once asked what was in his opinion the best way to enable one to be comfortable during the heat of summer, he replied: "Always have something to do. Keep busy, and you'll have no time to think of the heat."

It is said of General Wolf, that while he was floating on the River St. Lawrence, on the evening of Sept. 12, 1759,—the night before his memorable attack on Quebec, in which on the next day he lost his life,—he was beguiling an hour in reading Gray's poems, and closing the book, said: "I had rather be the author of that poem, the Elegy, than to be the captor of Quebec."

We now turn our feet homeward, and as our carriage passes, we take a distant look, perhaps half a mile away, of the old mansion and grounds once occupied by William Penn, or at least in which he is said to have resided. Of the proof of this we may say that we have none, aside from the assertion of the guide stationed on the tower at the castle and of people who reside in the region. Our history of the great man is somewhat meagre concerning his last days. One of his last official public acts in America was to aid in making our Philadelphia a city, the charter of which was signed Oct. 28, 1701. He soon after returned to England, and was for the next succeeding years involved in much trouble on account of his business matters in Pennsylvania, by reason of the vicious conduct of his son, to whom he had intrusted his affairs, and commissioned to act as his representative. And then as now, troubles never come singly; for after his already eventful life, at the age of 64 a new and grievous trouble was in store for him. At this time died his trusted friend and agent in London, a Quaker by the name of Ford, who left to his executors false claims against Penn to a very large amount. Conscious of his integrity, and to avoid the extortion, he suffered himself to be committed to the Fleet Prison in London. This was in 1708, and he remained there a long time, till finally released by his friends, who, as best they could, compounded with the creditors. In 1712 he made arrangements with the crown for a transfer of his rights in Pennsylvania, receiving from it $60,000. He soon after was afflicted with paralysis; and though living yet six more years, and experiencing other shocks which greatly impaired his vigor and faculties, especially his memory and power of motion, he finally died at Ruscombe, Berkshire, July 30, 1718, at the age of 74, and was buried in Jordan, a Quaker burial-ground, near the village of Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire.

In passing we remark that, during the plague at London in 1665, Milton made Ruscombe his residence, and that here he finished his great poem, "Paradise Lost." And who can say how much of the coloring of the celebrated poem is not to be attributed to the trouble the people of London, as well as the great bard, were, in consequence of the plague, experiencing? This parish is about twenty miles north of Stoke Pogis, in the county of Buckingham, as before named.

We took our team back for Windsor, and train from there to London, arriving at 8.30 p. m.,—well repaid for our labors of the eventful day, if labor which was a perpetual pleasure can be so called. For the first time in one's life, being at and seeing Windsor Castle and the seat of the great Elegy! A great thing doing and done! A long breath, and no befitting remark; only silence, thankfulness, and contemplation avail.