At the end of an hour I found myself wandering through the
apartments of the great palace. They follow each other in
infinite succession, with no great variety of interest or aspect,
but with persistent pomp and a fine specific effect. They are
exactly of their various times. You pass from painted and
panelled bedchambers and closets, anterooms, drawing-rooms,
council-rooms, through king's suite, queen's suite, prince's
suite, until you feel yourself move through the appointed hours
and stages of some rigid monarchical day. On one side are the old
monumental upholsteries, the big cold tarnished beds and
canopies, with the circumference of disapparelled royalty
symbolised by a gilded balustrade, and the great carved and
yawning chimney-places where dukes-in-waiting may have warmed
their weary heels; on the other, in deep recesses, rise the
immense windows, the framed and draped embrasures where the
sovereign whispered and favourites smiled, looking out on
terraced gardens and misty park. The brown walls are dimly
illumined by innumerable portraits of courtiers and captains,
more especially with various members of the Batavian entourage of
William of Orange, the restorer of the palace; with good store
too of the lily-bosomed models of Lely and Kneller. The whole
tone of this processional interior is singularly stale and sad.
The tints of all things have both faded and darkened--you taste
the chill of the place as you walk from room to room. It was
still early in the day and in the season, and I flattered myself
that I was the only visitor. This complacency, however, dropped
at sight of a person standing motionless before a simpering
countess of Sir Peter Lely's creation. On hearing my footstep
this victim of an evaporated spell turned his head and I