was in a similar condition, or worse, none of the old sons of the crazy old king having any legitimate children.  The prince regent himself was highly unpopular with the mass of his people; and the classes that formed his principal support were more so, by reason of the arrogance and exactions of the landed interest, the high price of grain and other heavy financial burdens consequent on the war, the arbitrary prosecutions and imprisonment of leaders of the people, and the irregularities of his private life.

But these sinister omens proved illusory.  Leigh Hunt, Wraxall and the rest made but ineffectual martyrs; the Bourbons straggled back into France and Spain, with such results as we see; George IV. weathered, by no merit of his own, a fresh series of storms at home; the clouds that lowered upon his house were made glorious summer by the advent of a fat little lady in 1819—­the fat old lady of 1875; and we step from the tomb of Charles in St. George’s Chapel to that where George and William slumber undisturbed in the tomb-house, elaborately decorated by Wolsey.  Wolsey’s fixtures were sold by the thrifty patriots of Cromwell’s Parliament, and bought in by the republican governor of the castle as “old brass.”  George was able, too, to add another story to the stature of the round tower or keep that marks the middle ward of the castle and looks down, on the rare occasion of a sufficiently clear atmosphere, on prosperous and no longer disloyal London.  This same keep has quite a list of royal prisoners; John of France and David II. and James I. of Scotland enjoyed a prolonged view of its interior; so did the young earl of Surrey, a brother-poet, a century removed, of James.

Leaving behind us the atmosphere of shackles and dungeons, we emerge, through the upper ward and the additions of Queen Bess, upon the ample terrace, where nothing bounds us but the horizon.  Together, the north, east and south terraces measure some two thousand feet.  The first looks upon Eton, the lesser park of some five hundred acres which fills a bend of the Thames and the country beyond for many miles.  The eastern platform, lying between the queen’s private apartments and an exquisite private garden, is not always free to visitors.  The south terrace presents to the eye the Great Park of thirty-eight hundred acres, extending six miles, with a width of from half a mile to two miles.  The equestrian statue at the end of the Long Walk is a conspicuous object.  The prevailing mass of rolling woods is broken by scattered buildings, glades and avenues, which take from it monotony and give it life.  Near the south end is an artificial pond called Virginia Water, edged with causeless arches and ruins that never were anything but ruins, Chinese temples and idle toys of various other kinds, terrestrial and aquatic.  The ancient trees, beeches and elms, of enormous size, and often projected individually, are worth studying near or from a distance.  The elevation is not so great as to bring out low-lying