and only used the Castle on great occasions,-always except for morning prayers in the Private Chapel. About 1804 the king and his family migrated to the Castle; and the lath and plaster of Sir William Chambers was abandoned to the equerries and chance visitors of the Court. A few years of excitement, such as the spirit of the country lighted up in the heart of the brave old man when invasion was talked of, and the Castle became to George III. a prison, under the most painful circumstances that can attend the loss of liberty. After his death Windsor Castle was remodelled. Here, in these splendid chambers, have two kings held their state, and here twice has the lesson been taught, that

"The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things."

The Court routine of Windsor is now hallowed by duty. It is not for us to attempt to unveil the inner life of a Queen and a Mother.

Those who really desire to see Windsor, and to have its beauties impressed upon their memories, should not be content with a few hours at the Castle, and a few hours in the Parks-a whirl of trains and flys. It is not our purpose to make a Guide-book. We seek to interest the reader rather than the tourist. But if the tourist will listen to us, we would say, spend two summer or autumn days "under the greenwood tree," and one, at least, in Windsor itself.

To

Eton and its surrounding associations, another day should be given; and that we reserve for a succeeding paper. This glorious view from the North Terracehow can it be comprehended in half an hour? The river is glowing under the setting sun; one flood of light bathes all the West, and the distant hills of Berkshire and Oxfordshire mingle their gold with the golden sky. Come here in the gray morning, and the Thames shall creep like a silver thread through the green plain, sending up its vaporous wreaths to mingle with the blue mists of the distance. Once more seek those woods, which look so cool and solemn in the soft early light.

There is another road to the Great Park running parallel with the Long Walk. About a mile from the town we reach the Park Gate, and we are free to wander by grassy alleys or shady avenues. For two miles or so, we will now prefer to keep the high road. There are fine old elms and oaks around as soon as we enter the Park. But we are approaching a spot where the oaks seem thicker and older, and the paths look devious and untrodden. The path on the right leads to Cranbourn. In ten minutes after you quit the road, you are in the most picturesque part of the old Forest. No woodman has been here to hew down the old gnarled trunks ;-no planter has raised up an intrusive population of unhonoured saplings. In this quiet valley there is unwonted company-a flock of milk-white Cashmere goats, feeding as comfortably in the fern as if they were growing shawls in their own sunny land. The trees are standing thicker and thicker -a sort of avenue is before us, such as led up to old

mansions, with its "obsolete prolixity." We continue along it, and stand before an octagon tower-it seems uninhabited. It is all that remains of Cranbourn. And what is Cranbourn to us? It was the mansion of Lord Ranelagh, in Queen Anne's time; and it had many royal and noble tenants between the days of Anne and the time when the last tenant, the courtly architect, Mr. Nash, built this tower-and then the great house was swept away. But one dwelt here for a short time in her sunny youth, who is still dear to a nation's memory-the Princess Charlotte. She has shed a lustrous association over this exquisite spot. And so Cranbourn is something to us. But, what a glorious landscape bursts upon us from the ridge on which this octagon tower stands! Never was the art of landscape-gardening carried to greater perfection. It cannot be accident that brings the neigh

bouring hill of Saint Leonard's through that vista,

with its bold woods and sunny lawns. It cannot be accident that has excluded the shabby houses that lie about the Castle, and made the giant pile rise beyond the middle distance, a self-supported monarch of the This is art-perhaps the most difficult of

woods.

arts.

We pass from Cranbourn into a road that runs in a westerly direction, and connects the road from Windsor to Ascot with the road from Windsor to Winkfield. This connecting road is now planted on each side. It was formerly a wild forest district, leading to Winkfield Plain—a field where armies might manœuvre. We once witnessed a mimic war in this district. Upon the passing of the Forest Inclosure Act, some of the inhabitants of the disafforested parishes entertained the belief that the outlying deer were common property, and began to shoot them accordingly. The law would have given a slow redress; so the wiser measure was adopted of hemming in the deer by a large body of cavalry; and as the circle was gradually narrowed, they were at last driven into the secure confines of the Great Park. Southern England, perhaps, never saw such a hunting as this of Cranbourn Woods. Fortunately, there was no Douglas ready to do battle with the Percy of that day, so that this was not "a woful hunting." We cross the Winkfield Road, and pass by a lodge into the opposite wood. About a quarter of a mile from the gate a green walk invites us to its cool shades under the October sun. Every step that we advance leads us to some new beauty. Fine old beeches are mingled with young underwood; but there is nothing formal or obtrusive in the new planting. Grace has not been wholly sacrificed to utility. There is not a cloud in the blue sky. The autumnal atmosphere is so exquisitely pure, that every form appears in sharp relief, and every colour, harmonious as it may be, preserves its identity. The shadows upon the gray trunks of the broad beech are positive ebon; and it almost requires the touch to be satisfied that they are not substantial. The bright

est green of the underwood mingles with the deep brown of the fern. A peculiar fungus, white, and polished as ivory, glitters upon many a sturdy giant of the woods, as if he had clothed himself with pendant ornaments in honour of such a sky. But the grassy path suddenly spreads into a little amphitheatre; and in the midst a most remarkable oak stands alone,an oak of wondrous height,—an oak without a branch till the trunk has run up some fifty feet. The tree is evidently an honoured one. Stay! There is an inscription upon a brass plate :

QUEEN VICTORIA'S TREE.

We were not prepared for this. Worthy, indeed, is the It belongs to no dim antiquity; it is in its prime. tree to be associated with the name of 'Victoria.' Decay will not touch it, perhaps, for centuries. Yet it is no mere growth of yesterday. It is not simply picturesque; it is the representative not only of Shall we say that it is a beauty but of usefulness. symbol of a constitutional monarchy?

From Queen Victoria's tree, a walk for two milesa winding walk by the side of a steep ravine-presents some of the most beautiful forest scenery that England can offer. Our artists hunt for the lost Sherwood; or wander, not always without disappointment, through the New Forest. But here are some of the most delightful combinations that the pencil can demand. We know the weakness of words to picture such scenes; and we leave the pencil to do its proper work. After crossing the ravine several times by bridges, which are so happily constructed as to aid the natural beauties of the walk, we arrive at a garden in the wilderness— a cottage which a poet might covet in his search for peace. It is a woodman's cottage. Queen Charlotte's Oak' is near this cottage; for it has been a custom of our queens, from the time of Anne, to associate their names with some oak of Windsor Forest. Well, there is something that will outlast even oaks: "the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust."

We must leave these pleasant places. A gate below the Woodman's Cottage leads into a high-road, by which we may return to Windsor. But commend us to a stroll by the Thames. We can cross to the north bank by the ferry at Surly Hall; and then three miles of the silver stream, and a new prospect of the Castle at every turn of the banks,-with, perhaps, a boat-race of Etonians, such as our frontispiece exhibits, and the westering sun lighting up every window of the great pile,—such a walk may fill up our third day, and send us home to labour with renewed hearts, and memories filled with images of pleasure.