The Dalles daily chronicle. [volume] (The Dalles, Or.) 1890-1948, 1892-01-02
iHE ROOMS OF A QUEEN.
GRAND AND GORGEOUS, BUT Ex-
CEEDINGLY UNHOMELIKE.

Slctorla's Huge Palace in Windsor and
How the Dreary Waste of Stately Room
After Room Impressed an American
Woman Who Visited 1t.
The Scotch moors, as 1 saw them in
July, are already fading in my memory
into soft harmonious mingling of rus
set and green, for the heather was not
yet purple; but the sun caught the spray
OF a mountain rivulet tumbling on its
rocky way, or turned more vivid the in
tense green of those patches of verdure
In the midst of the brown of the heather.
which we think seem so unnatural when
artists who paint in the highlands trans
fer them to canvas. These high lights
stay by one when the hills and all the
ordinary features of that charming Scot
land melt into the dimmest of memories.
One OF these summers high lights was
a visit to the queens private apartments
at Windsor. I don't know what red tape
and long waiting and diplomatic refer
ence it took to get the permit. 1 only
know that the thoughtful American girl
who remembered me and made me one
OF the four who were to invade the
sacred precincts conferred much pleasure
on me, and even though we were all SO
disappointed in what we saw, it was hu-
man, was it not, to be delighted to go
where few enter?
We looked upon the herd of common
ers who filed by us in the wake of the
cicerone, who every hour takes throngs
of sightseers through the main part of
Windsor castle. Their hands were red
with Baedekers, but we loftily ignored
guidebooks for one day.
There were but three high lights there
to remember. One was General Cor
don's Bible, before which could have
knelt, for it was the well worn book of a
soldier who took it into the tented field
as his companion.
There is no 1nistaking a book that has
been read, the very way it lies open, the
invisible marks of reverential fingers,
the color of the paper which the open air
produces.
1t disturbed me to see it in a hideous
little glass casket all ornamentation and
filigree. Very fine in its way, suppose,
and taking many pounds out of the
hero's sisters pocket, who gave it to the
queen, but SO inappropriate to the sim
pie life of that heroic soul, that martyr
to the mistakes of his country.
TWO MARBLE STATUES.
The second high light in the queen s
own domicile was the view from the
state drawing room windows of the
avenue stretching miles and miles away.
1t was sunny and bright, for some far
back English sovereign or his wise gar
dener had, perhaps, evidently believed
that with all his possessions there was
nothing quite equal to the God given one
of sunshine, and so there was a wide
strip of the greenest turf in the world on
either side of the drive. There were no
parterres, no fountains OF statues, sim
ply this broad open space, where her
majesty could walk or drive for miles,
hidden by the forest trees on either side
from the staring eyes of the public.
The third high light in those drearily
magnificent palace corridors was the life
size modelling of thequeen and the prince
consort, made since his death. The
marble was scarcely pure enough to
represent as perfect an ideal of wifely
love as any sculptor is ever likely to
give. The queens face turned toward
ker husband reveals the utmost devotion,
the most tender entreaty, as she leans
against him imploring him not to leave
her. Whoever has not understood wifely
os0OIdClOA US1uIo IuuSO ~. away IIO1u
this exquisite exempliication Of it with
new knowledge of what its possibilities
are. 1 do not even know if it is good
modelling. only know that, intract-
able, cold and inexpensive as marble
is supposed to be, it speaks in the face
and attitude of the queen as no painting
I remember to have seen.
wish could feel such genuine ad-
miration of the prince, but ne is so Eng
lish, SO handsome, so far away. His
head is turned quite from his wife, and
as she clings to him he coldly points to
distant lands.
NO TRACE OF HOME.
There was nothing else in these gor-
geous rooms that stays by me. There
seemed to me miles of corridors, draw
ing rooms, little and big; dining rooms
and boudoirs, all glitter and glow. The
usual gilt and ormolu, marble and onyx,
gloss of satin and rich stuffs, the dazzle
of luminous glass, pervaded the entire
suites of apartments. We kept looking
for some room where there might be a
trace of homeliness.
We longed to see workbasket, even
if her majesty doesn't do needlework,
and a sitting room where there might be
an ordinary writing desk, a bookcase
with some well thumbed volumes or a
chair-an American rocking chair even,
in which loving woman had rocked
her babies to sleep.
The doors were closed on the queens
and prince consort's bedroom, but in
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