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.
The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highlyromantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from home by hisfather, Robert III., and destined for the French court, to be rearedunder the eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery anddanger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was hismishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands of theEnglish, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstandingthat a truce existed between the two countries.
The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many sorrowsand disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. "The news," weare told, "was brought to him while at supper, and did so overwhelmhim with grief, that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into thehands of the servant that attended him. But being carried to hisbed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died ofhunger and grief at Rothesay."** Buchanan.
James was detained in captivity about eighteen years; but thoughdeprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due tohis rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches of usefulknowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him those mentaland personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, inthis respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled himto apply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, andquietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish thoseelegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. Thepicture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, ishighly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero ofromance, than of a character in real history. He was well learnt, weare told, "to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, towrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert mediciner, right craftyin playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments ofmusic, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry."** Translation of Hector Boyce.
With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, fittinghim to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated to givehim an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been a severetrial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time ofhis years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of James,however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to bevisited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Someminds corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty;others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poetto become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement.
He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like thecaptive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.
Have you not seen the nightingale,
A pilgrim coop'd into a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her lonely hermitage!
Even there her charming melody doth proveThat all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.** Roger L'Estrange.
