imagine that the immeasurable boughs of
its oaks still shadow me, its castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray the
joyous scene of the twentieth of June, such as even now my aching heart
recalls it.

Circumstances had called me to London; here I heard talk that symptoms
of the plague had occurred in hospitals of that city. I returned to
Windsor; my brow was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little
Park, as was my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to the
Castle. A great part of these grounds had been given to cultivation,
and strips of potatoe-land and corn were scattered here and there.
The rooks cawed loudly in the trees above; mixed with their hoarse
cries I heard a lively strain of music. It was Alfred's birthday.
The young people, the Etonians, and children of the neighbouring gentry,
held a mock fair, to which all the country people were invited. The
park was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy flags, waving
in the sunshine, added to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform erected
beneath the terrace, a number of the younger part of the assembly were
dancing. I leaned against a tree to observe them. The band played the wild
eastern air of Weber introduced in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave
wings to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on unconsciously beat
time. At first the tripping measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a
moment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the dance. The revulsion of
thought passed like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, I
thought; already your tomb is built up around you. Awhile, because you are
gifted with agility and strength, you fancy that you live: but frail is the
"bower of flesh" that encaskets life; dissoluble the silver cord than binds
you to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure to pleasure by the
graceful mechanism of well-formed limbs, will suddenly feel the axle-tree
give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust. Not one of you, O! fated
crowd, can escape--not one! not my own ones! not my Idris and her babes!
Horror and misery! Already the gay dance vanished, the green sward was
strewn with corpses, the blue air above became fetid with deathly
exhalations. Shriek, ye clarions! ye loud trumpets, howl! Pile dirge on
dirge; rouse the funereal chords; let the air ring with dire wailing; let
wild discord rush on the wings of the wind! Already I hear it, while
guardian angels, attendant on humanity, their task achieved,