hue of
"Turkish horrors."

After service Lord ---- took me to the chantry, where the tombs of the
family are. It was to show me a famous statue, that of a Lady ---- and her
baby, at the birth of which she died, it dying soon, too. The statue is
very beautiful, and is the most purely and sweetly pathetic work in
sculpture that I ever saw. It had a special interest for me because I
remembered reading about it in my boyhood; but I had forgotten the name of
the subject, and I had no thought of finding it here in a little country
church.

WINDSOR [Footnote: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."]

BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

About eleven o'clock we found ourselves going up the old stone steps to
the castle. It was the last day of a fair which had been holden in this
part of the country, and crowds of the common people were flocking to the
castle, men, women, and children pattering up the stairs before and after
us.

We went first through the state apartments. The principal thing that
interested me was the ball room, which was a perfect gallery of Vandyke's
paintings. Here was certainly an opportunity to know what Vandyke is. I
should call him a true court painter--a master of splendid
conventionalities, whose portraits of kings are the most powerful
arguments for the divine right I know of.

The queen's audience chamber is hung with tapestry representing scenes
from the book of Esther. This tapestry made a very great impression upon
me. A knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome in the material part of
painting is undoubtedly an unsuspected element of much of the pleasure we
derive from it; and for this reason, probably, this tapestry appeared to
us better than paintings executed with equal spirit in oils. We admired it
exceedingly, entirely careless what critics might think of us if they knew
it....

From the state rooms we were taken to the top of the Round Tower, where we
gained a magnificent view of the Park of Windsor, with its regal avenue,
miles in length, of ancient oaks; its sweeps of greensward; clumps of
trees; its old Herne oak, of classic memory; in short, all that
constitutes the idea of a perfect English landscape. The English tree is
shorter and stouter than ours; its foliage dense and deep, lying with a
full, rounding outline against the sky. Everything here conveys the idea
of concentrated vitality, but without that rank luxuriance seen in our
American growth. Having unfortunately exhauste