Whether the genuine oak was cut down at the close of the last century, or was preserved, carefully fenced in and labeled, in an utterly leafless and shattered state, to our generation, is a moot point.  Certain it is that the most ardent Shakespearean must abandon the hope of securing for a bookmark to his Merry Wives of Windsor one of the leaves that rustled, while “Windsor bell struck twelve,” over the head of fat Jack.  He has the satisfaction, however, of looking up at the identical bell-tower of the sixteenth century, and may make tryst with his imagination to await its midnight chime.  Then he may cross the graceful iron bridge—­modern enough, unhappily—­to Datchet, and ascertain by actual experiment whether the temperature of the Thames has changed since the dumping into it of Falstaff, “hissing hot.”

[Illustration:  STAINES CHURCH.]

Back at the castle, we must “do” it, after the set fashion.  Reminders meet us at the threshold that it is in form a real place of defence, contemplative of wars and rumors of wars, and not a mere dwelling by any means in original design.  A roadway, crooked and raked by frowning embrasures, leads up from the peaceful town to the particularly inhospitable-looking twin towers of Henry VIII.’s gateway, in their turn commanded by the round tower on the right, in full panoply of artificial scarp and ditch.  Sentinels in the scarlet livery that has flamed on so many battlefields of all the islands and continents assist in proving that things did not always go so easy with majesty as they do now.  But two centuries and more have elapsed since there happened any justification for this frown of stone, steel and feathers; Rupert’s futile demonstration on it in 1642 having been Windsor’s last taste of war, its sternest office after that having been the safe-keeping of Charles I., who here spent his “sorrowful and last Christmas.”  Once inside the gate, visions of peace recur.  The eye first falls on the most beautiful of all the assembled structures, St. George’s Chapel.  It, with the royal tomb house, the deanery and Winchester tower, occupies the left or north side of the lower or western ward.  In the rear of the chapel of St. George are quartered in cozy cloisters the canons of the college of that ilk—­not great guns in any sense, but old ecclesiastical artillery spiked after a more or less noisy youth and laid up in varnished black for the rest of their days.  Watch and ward over these modern equipments is kept by Julius Caesar’s tower, as one of the most ancient erections is of course called.  Still farther to our left as we enter are the quarters of sundry other antiquated warriors, the Military Knights of Windsor.  These are a few favored veterans, mostly decayed officers of the army and navy, who owe this shelter to royal favor and an endowment.  The Ivy tower, west of the entrance, is followed in eastward succession by those of the gateway, Salisbury, Garter and Bell towers.