WINDSOR Castle, the winter residence of England’s Queen, is situated on the Thames about twenty miles from London, and possesses many interesting features. The property of the Castle comprises a number of towers, gates, mansions, barracks, chapels, and other structures. The principal portion occupies two courts of spacious dimensions, an upper and a lower, there being a large round tower (or keep) between, in which the Governor resides. This tower rises 220 feet above the Thames, and it is said that on a clear day twelve counties can be seen from its summit.

St. George’s Chapel is an elegant Gothic edifice where the royal family occasionally attend divine services. The Albert Memorial Chapel is another place of worship, which was fitted up by Queen Victoria in memory of her late husband. Here is his tomb, although his bones are buried three or four miles away in the royal park. The Chapel is inlaid with costly marbles of various kinds, and it is said that the Queen spent an enormous sum in beautifying the place.

The greatest interest of the Castle centres itself in what is called the State Apartments. These are a series of large rooms richly decorated, some of them with gildings, paintings and tapestry, others with a collection of warlike armor and weapons of former centuries. It must be borne in mind that these premises have been occupied by the royal family for many centuries. These walls have several times surrendered their royal inmates to the executioner, who came in the name of law to avenge political wrongs.

The large park adjoining the Palace grounds is almost a fairy garden. It contains many artificial lakes and flowing fountains, a great variety of shrubbery, and a rich profusion of flowers. Statuary abounds. Deer, elks, antelopes, and other wild animals, are numerous.

Standing in front of the Palace, one looks down the “royal avenue” stretching out in a straight line for five miles before him. This splendid boulevard is flanked on either side by lordly elms whose swaying boughs are so interwoven as to form a graceful and almost unbroken arch above the drive from one end to the other. On a hot summer day, the thick green foliage of the trees, flings a grateful shade upon the drive.

This is a gala day at Windsor. The Castle is decorated, and filled with royal guests. Twenty thousand people are assembled in the park. At two o’clock the Queen and her visitors form a procession at the Palace, and pass slowly down the avenue between the two rows of elm-trees. Reaching the far end of the boulevard, they turn to the left and, after driving one mile more, they arrive at the place that is to be the scene of action.

The two thousand persons who preceded the royal procession have formed a circle about a hundred feet in diameter. The size of the circle is determined by a rope stretched around. The open space is spread with a rich carpet. The Queen, attended by her family and royal friends, enters the charmed circle and proceeds to its centre. After a speech, which it takes her fifteen minutes to deliver, she proceeds to lay the cornerstone of an equestrian monument to the late Prince Albert Consort. This impressive ceremony being over, the Queen approaches the crowd, shakes hands with and speaks kindly to those persons standing next to the rope on the outside.

I could shake hands with Her Majesty, and would do so, but my American spirit is too proud to bend the suppliant knee to any earthly monarch. I honor Victoria for her useful life and deep piety, for her wifely devotion and maternal instincts; and I would take off my hat to her as I would have her son take off his hat to my mother. But as for bowing the knee to her, I never can. My knees are too stiff for that kind of exercise.

Two hours after leaving Windsor, I find myself in Stratford-on-Avon, the home of our own “priceless Shakespeare.” I spend the night here. “A sweet English village is this Stratford, seated on the edge of a silvery river green with turfy banks and woody slopes, picturesque with cottage houses and cottage gardens; crowned with a village church, ivy-clad, surrounded by moss-grown graves, approached by a lime-tree avenue, and its slender spire tapering towards Heaven.” Here Shakespeare first saw light. Here his boyhood was spent, his education received, his youth passed, his marriage consummated. Here his children were born and brought up. Here, too, he yielded to that “bribeless harvester”—Death. So this humble village has given to the world “the greatest name in our literature, in all literature.” Hence, Henry Bell said:

“His birthplace came to be famous,
And the grave where his bones were laid;
And to Stratford, the ancient borough,
Nations their pilgrimage made.”

Strange thoughts pass through my mind, and deep emotions stir my heart, as I wander through the house wherein was born the man who wrote not for an age, but for all time; as I stand in the church of the Holy Trinity, and look upon the grave, the tomb, and bust of him who analyzed character as chemists analyze material substances. He probed to the heart, and by the light of his own genius read unuttered thoughts and discovered the secret motives of men. Human faces were to him so many books wherein he could “read strange matters.” About a mile from Stratford is the cottage of Anne Hathaway, who first initiated Shakespeare into that sweetest and most delightful of all human mysteries—love.

“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he can not win a woman.”

Yes, he won her, and afterwards he could say:

“She is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.”

It is a matter of congratulation that our people appreciate Shakespeare as much or more than Englishmen. The register at the poet’s house shows that at least one-half of the number who visit his grave are Americans. Nor are our people slow to give material proof of their love for the myriad-minded bard. Mr. G. W. Childs, of Philadelphia, whom to mention is but to praise, has, within the last twelve months, erected in Stratford a costly and beautifully designed fountain to the memory of Shakespeare.

We might write many other things about our mother country, but we must away to the Continent. So, adieu, adieu; but I hope not a final farewell to merry England. The English Channel is only twenty-five miles wide, but it is usually rough and boisterous, and is an object of terror to travelers. As we start across, Johnson says:

“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea
For an acre of barren ground.”

But the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. The Channel for once is all that could be desired. The weather is pleasant, the sea placid as a lake.

As I land on the Continent at Ostend, the thing that most impresses me is the fact that I can not impress any one. The custom-house officers surround me. I tell them who I am, where I am from, and what my business is; yet this does not satisfy them. I repeat my statement once, twice, three times, and still they do not seem to comprehend. I say: “Gentlemen, I have told my story as plainly as I can speak. Do you now understand?” And when I come to find out, they do not understand what “understand” means.

Buildings on this side of the Channel wear a century-old, time-touched appearance. The people have strange, odd, and old-time ways of doing things. For instance, they work one horse to a two-horse wagon—not in shafts, but on one side of the tongue. Frequently they work one ox and one horse together. This is what Johnson calls being unequally yoked.

From Ostend I go direct to Brussels, the capital of Belgium. I happen to arrive in the city on the day of a national celebration. Everything is decorated for the occasion. At night the city is beautifully illuminated, and great crowds of enthusiastic people throng the streets. The fireworks display is especially fine, representing, among other things, the eruption of Vesuvius, the Falls of Niagara, and the Battle of Waterloo. As the standing army of Belgium is present, the officers giving commands, and the soldiers going through the manual of arms; as the royal bands are filling the air with martial music; and, as in the midst of the brilliant scene, are the bronze statues of Wellington and others who fought by his side on the field of Waterloo,—it really seems as if the memorable battle of 1815 is being re-enacted before my eyes! I can but think of Byron’s thrilling lines descriptive of the original battle.

Next morning I am up early, and am soon on my way to the scene of action, nine miles from Brussels, where the powers of earth came together to wrestle for the thrones of Europe. Napoleon was at a very great disadvantage, as Wellington had by far the best position. On the hill where Wellington’s army was stationed, there is now an artificial mountain, about six hundred yards in circumference and two hundred and fifty feet high. This mountain is crowned with a granite pedestal, about twenty-five feet high, on which stands a huge bronze lion, his right foot resting on a great iron ball representing the earth. This king of beasts has his eyes turned toward France and has a proud, triumphant look on his face. There are several small monuments on the field, marking the places where different officers and heroes fell. The large one of which I speak was built seven years after the battle, or one year after the death of Napoleon on St. Helena. There are several trees, also one small brick house surrounded by a wall of the same material standing on the field, just as they were on the day of the battle. Of course, they are much riddled and shattered by shot and shell.

I am much interested in a conversation with an old man who lives where he was born, about four miles from the battle field. He is now ninety-one years old, hence he was nineteen years of age when the memorable battle was fought. He saw Napoleon on the day of the fight, and the day afterwards was on the field and helped to bury the dead. He saw Wellington several times, and remembers distinctly how he looked after his greatest victory. The old man is approaching the end of his journey, and I am truly glad to have met him before he crosses the river.

Let us now return to Brussels and enter the Wertz Museum. We find here a picture which is truly illustrative of Belgium hatred of Napoleon. It is a most wonderful picture. It represents Napoleon in hell. He is in the bottomless pit, clad in his uniform. A great number of worn and haggard widows and childless mothers, of ragged, weeping orphans, of old men crippled, maimed and halt, are crowding around Napoleon, scoffing, jeering, and grinning at him, holding up before his eyes and under his nose shattered hands and arms and feet and legs, and broken heads and bleeding hearts. The sulphurous flames are coiling up around the unfortunate victim, while on his face there is a double expression of agony and remorse. When asked if I believe this picture really represents Napoleon’s present condition, I reply: “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”

One could write a volume about this splendid collection of pictures, but I will mention only two or three more. I am especially impressed with two companion pictures, twenty by thirty feet each. The first represents hell in revolt against Heaven. All the fiends of hell and all the powers of darkness are arrayed against Christ and His holy angels. Christ dismisses His angels; they fly away, leaving Him all alone. This emboldens the enemy, who rush on to the conflict. The second picture is “The Triumph of Christ.” He has hurled the fiends back headlong to their native hell. And yet in this moment of victory stands pitying His enemy rather than glorying in His own achievements. I can but think: “Surely, His ways are not our ways; neither are His thoughts our thoughts.”

Another picture that impresses me very much is “Age Offering the Things of the Present to the Man of the Future.” An old man is holding out to a young lad flags and sceptres representing Power and Dominion; also glittering diamonds, a golden harp, a name and a book, emblematic, respectively, of wealth, pleasure, fame and knowledge. He can take any one, but only one. I am so afraid that the inexperienced youth will make a wrong choice, that I want to whisper in his ear: “Take wisdom; take understanding; forget it not. Forsake her not, and she shall preserve thee; love her, and she shall keep thee. Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom. Exalt her, and she will promote thee, she will bring thee to honor.”