one would expect to hear "ghost stories," if not to see ghosts; and if ghosts are to be seen, what more impressive sight could there be than that of those who have walkedhere when living, now in mysterious stateliness haunting the scenes where they lived and suffered? The White King, the lonely Cardinal who served his earthly lord better than his Heavenly Master, Elizabeth, and meek Catherine of Braganza, and the long line of the great Harry's wives—we may see them all in memory or in fancy, and maybe some will tell us that they still walk the night. Or we may wander by the great old trees, the oaks and elms in the House Park, of mighty girth, some of which perhaps may look back to Wolsey's days, as one fine elm, at least by tradition, belongs to that of the Stewarts—"King Charles's swing" it is called. And as the twilight brings memories of romance with it, and soon the moon takes up the wondrous tale, we may murmur with Keats, whose words sound so naturally in this great galaxy of trees—
"Upon a trancèd summer night
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars.
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save for one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave."
So by night or day Hampton Court still has its fascination for artists and for poets. One who knows almost every stone has drawn it, as long months have
