ion of one of my
American friends to a beautiful rose near the door of the cot, and said
to him, "The law that will protect that flower will also guard and
protect the hand that planted it." He knew that I had drank deep of the
cup of slavery, was aware of what I meant, and merely nodded his head in
reply. I never experienced hospitality more genuine, and yet more
unpretending, than was meted out to me while at Hartwell. And the
favourable impression made on my own mind, of the distinguished
proprietor of Hartwell Park, was nearly as indelible as my humble name
that the Doctor had engraven in a brick, in the vault beneath the
Observatory in Hartwell House.

On my return to London I accepted an invitation to join a party on a
visit to Windsor Castle; and taking the train at the Waterloo Bridge
Station, we were soon passing through a pleasant part of the country.
Arrived at the castle, we committed ourselves into the hands of the
servants, and were introduced into Her Majesty's State apartments,
Audience Chamber, Vandyck Room, Waterloo Chambers, St. George's Hall,
Gold Pantry, and many others whose names I have forgotten. In wandering
about the different apartments I lost my company, and in trying to find
them, passed through a room in which hung a magnificent portrait of
Charles I., by Vandyck. The hum and noise of my companions had ceased,
and I had the scene and silence to myself. I looked in vain for the
king's evil genius (Cromwell), but he was not in the same room. The
pencil of Sir Peter Lely has left a splendid full-length likeness of
James II. George IV. is suspended from a peg in the wall, looking as if
it was fresh from the hands of Sir Thomas Lawrence, its admirable
painter. I was now in St. George's Hall, and I gazed upward to view the
beautiful figures on the ceiling, until my neck was nearly out of joint.
Leaving this room, I inspected with interest the ancient _keep_ of the
castle. In past centuries this part of the palace was used as a prison.
Here James the First of Scotland was detained a prisoner for eighteen
years. I viewed the window through which the young prince had often
looked to catch a glimpse of the young and beautiful Lady Jane,
daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he was enamoured.

From the top of the Round Tower I had a fine view of the surrounding
country. Stoke Park, once the residence of that great friend of humanity
and civilization, William Penn, was among the scenes that I vi