ON A soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made anexcursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied andpoetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud oldpile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular wallsand massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a loftyridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with alordly air, upon the surrounding world.
On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind,which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament,filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote poetry anddream of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent saloons and longechoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifference by wholerows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in thechamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which graced thegay court of Charles the Second; and as I gazed upon them, depictedwith amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love,I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me tobask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the "largegreen courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancingalong the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of thetender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of hisloiterings about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the LadyGeraldine-"With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower,With easie sighs, such as men draw in love."In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancientKeep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride andtheme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of hisyouth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that hasstood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. Itstands on a mound, which elevates it above the other parts of thecastle, and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In thearmory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds andages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, whichhad once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a staircase toa suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storiedtapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionateand fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his story themagical hues of poetry and fiction.