CHAPTER IX.

RICHMOND TO BATTERSEA.

The River at Richmond--A Spot for a Holiday--The Old Palace of Sheen--The Trumpeters' House--Old Sad Memories--Richmond Green--The Church--Kean's Grave--Water Supply--The Bridge--The Nunnery of Sion and Convent of Sheen--Sir William Temple--Kew Observatory, Isleworth--Sion House and its History--Kew Palace and the Georges--Kew Gardens--Kew Green--Brentford--Mortlake--Barnes--Chiswick--The Boat-race--Hammersmith--Putney--Barn Elms--Putney and Fulham--The Bishops of London--Hurlingham--The Approach to a Great City.

It would be easy to find spots on the Thames where the natural features--the wood-clad slope, the grassy sward, and the gliding stream--were associated in equal beauty, but it would be difficult to meet with any more picturesque combination of these with the dwellings of men than may be seen on the river reach just below Richmond Bridge. The light-grey arches, through which the Thames flows ripplingly, are backed by the groves of Richmond Hill. On the one hand are the shady gardens and villas that now thickly stud the meadow plain of Twickenham; on the other, the houses of the town, after thronging down to the waterside at the entrance of the bridge, give place to statelier mansions with ample pleasure-grounds. It was doubtless a more imposing sight when the façade of the old palace of Sheen, which these mansions have replaced, overlooked the margin of the Thames; but it can have hardly been more picturesque than now. The low iron railing allows the eye to wander from the path by the riverside to the green pastures and lawns overshadowed by fine trees, to the old-fashioned façade of the "Trumpeters' House," while the more ambitious semi-classical design of Asgill House on the one hand, and of Queensberry House on the other, in closer proximity to the river, give an irregularity to the grouping, and perhaps accord better with the neighbouring town than the unbroken front of the Tudor palace is likely to have done. In its days, also, there were no bridges, and though the railway viaduct below might well be spared, the stone bridge must have improved a view of this kind. At any rate, this reach of the Thames is classic in art and literature; it has engaged the pencil of Turner, and is full of memories of Pope and Gay and Thomson.

The space between the two bridges seems to invite the traveller to linger. Fresh, perchance, from the streets of London, the odours of the underground railway still in his nostrils, the vapour of its smoky streets still lingering in his lungs, a little heated, it may be, and still mindful of towns in his walk from the railway station through Richmond streets to the bridge, he walks rapidly for a brief space along the towing-path, and then perforce halts in another and a new land. If, fortunately, he has chosen a day still early in the summer, before the average Londoner has quite realised that it is time to begin to take "an outing;" if he has arrived on the spot at an hour when the rowdy element, still, unhappily, too prominent among the dwellers in our metropolis, has not yet broken the peace of the Thames by those simian howlings or that loud-voiced blasphemy, which is deemed expressive of pleasure, then he will find it hard to detach himself from this reach of the river, and will imitate the elders of Richmond, two or three of whom he will generally find sunning or shading themselves on the benches near the waterside. Is it not enough to watch the trees almost dipping their branches in the stream, to find excitement in the hovering of a fly over its surface, in the splash of a fish, or even in the tiny swirls of the stream itself? In this dreamy calm which steals so quickly over us we watch the hovering butterfly or the flitting dragon-fly, the little dramas of animal life, their comedy or their tragedy, with an interest that causes the graver issues which we left behind barely an hour ago to fade from the mind. What more do we need after the noise of the streets than this perfect calm of the air, undisturbed save by the faint rustle of the breeze among the leaves, or the twittering note of a bird? What more, after the dusty pavements, than these glimpses of green lawn, of summer flowers in garden-beds or pendant from wall and trellis; of shadowy walks under green trees of Britain or darkling cedars from Lebanon? As we dream, memories rise of a dead-and-gone past--of many an episode of English history which is connected with this little reach of our river, perhaps the most classic ground on the Thames outside the precincts of the metropolis. Kings and queens, many a lord and lady of high degree, many a man on whom genius has conferred a place in history which birth alone cannot give, have loved to linger along this bit of Thames-side, or to float idly on its stream.

"Their mirth is sped; their gravest theme Sleeps with the things that cease to be; Their longest life, a morning gleam; A bubble bursting on the stream, Then swept to Time's unfathomed sea."--/Kenyon./

But let us awaken from our reveries to dwell more particularly upon the memories called up by the Thames below Richmond Bridge.

Once on a time the pride of Richmond and the glory of this part of the river was its royal palace--a favourite residence of several of the kings of England. There is some uncertainty as to when the manor of Sheen--for that was its earlier name--came into the hands of the Crown; but the first royal owner of the entire estate appears to have been Edward III. He also is said to have been the builder of the palace, although there must have been a residence on its site in the days of both his father and grandfather. Here, in fact, his long reign came to its melancholy end. Within the walls of Sheen he lay, robbed and deserted by courtiers and favourites, tended only by a "poor priest in the house," who found the dying monarch absolutely alone, and spoke words of exhortation and hope to soothe the parting struggle. His body was conveyed from Sheen by his four sons and other lords, and solemnly interred within Westminster Abbey. His grandson and successor lived here for a time, but on the death of his queen, Anne of Bohemia, within its walls, took such a hatred to the palace "that he, besides cursing the place where she died, did also for anger throwe down the buildings, unto where former kings being wearie of the citie, were wont for pleasure to resort." Henry V. rebuilt the palace, erecting a "delightful mansion of curious and costly workmanship." It was a favourite residence of Edward IV., and was held in equal regard by Henry VII. In his days, however, it suffered twice from fires, the first one destroying a considerable portion of the older buildings. Henry rebuilt the injured part, and altered the name from Sheen to Richmond. It is also interesting to learn that architects made mistakes or builders scamped their work even in the courts of Tudor kings, and at peril, as one would have thought, of their ears, if not of their necks; for shortly after the second fire a new gallery, on which the king and his son Prince Arthur had been walking a short time previously, fell down, fortunately without injuring any one. Richmond Palace was the scene of many of the principal festivities in this king's reign; much also of his accumulated treasure was hoarded within its walls. His successor, the much-married monarch, came frequently here in the earlier days of his reign, but the palace fell out of favour in the later, and was the country residence of his divorced wife, Anne of Cleves. Elizabeth, however, greatly liked it, and her last days were spent under its roof. She came from Chelsea to Richmond, in the month of January, sickening of the disease that caused her end, and overcome with melancholy for the death of Essex. She refused to take food or medicine or rest; she would not go to bed, but sat on cushions piled on the floor; a melancholy picture of distress, but with the old spirit left, as when she flashed out upon Cecil for having inadvertently used the words "she _must_ go to bed."

The palace was an occasional abode of James, her successor, and his queen, and the residence of their eldest son, the accomplished Prince Henry, "England's darling." Here he died, amid universal lamentation, and his brother succeeded to the expectation of a crown, and the ultimate doom of the headsman's axe. Prince Henry would hardly have pulled down "Bishops and Bells," but his brother secured their downfall and his own by trying unduly to exalt them. Prince Charles, after an interval of some three years, took up his abode at the palace, and Richmond once more awoke, for the new Prince of Wales scattered his money--or rather the nation's money--royally while he played the fool with "Steenie," Duke of Buckingham. After he assumed the crown his visits here became less frequent, and after his execution it was ordered by Act of Parliament that the valuable contents of the palace should be sold. Though inhabited from time to time after the Restoration, it never returned to its former greatness. Much of the building was destroyed before the end of the seventeenth century, and now only a few fragments remain. Old pictures and documents enable us to form a good idea of its ancient splendour, and a right noble and picturesque structure it must have been. On the north side it looked on to Richmond Green, where now may be seen the remnant of its ancient gatehouse; on the south-west it came down to the margin of the Thames. A narrow lane, leading from the Green to the riverside, and emerging opposite to the noble old elm which forms so marked a feature in the view from the river, passes across the site of the court of the ancient palace, and, doubtless, over the foundations of its principal buildings. Roughly speaking, the site of the river façade is now occupied by the three mansions already mentioned, which themselves, as we shall show, are not without a history. The principal of these lies far back from the river; a lovely garden, shaded with trees, intervenes. Judging from the drawings, the buildings of the palace approached near to the waterside, and the space between had rather a barren and desolate look, as though it were left in the rough as a mere foreshore. Now the gardens make the passer-by long to trespass. The owners, however, beneficently (or is it to secure a good view of the river?) keep their boundary fences low. Building on the site of the old palace seems to have begun quite early in the last century. The heavy, but stately red-brick house, with a stone portico, which we have already mentioned, was erected by a Mr. Richard Hill, brother of Mrs. Masham, the well-known favourite of Queen Anne. It bears the name of the Trumpeters' House, from two statues of figures blowing trumpets, which once adorned the façade. The more modern mansion, nearer to both the bridge and the river, stands on the site of the villa occupied by a noted character in the last century, the Duke of Queensbury--commonly known as old Q.--one of the least virtuous and respectable members of the aristocracy in a not too virtuous age. There is a characteristic story quoted by an historian of Richmond which carries its own moral. Wilberforce, when a young man, was invited to dine at the Richmond mansion. "The dinner was sumptuous, the views from the villa quite enchanting, and the Thames in all its glory; but the Duke looked on with indifference. 'What is there,' he said, 'to make so much of in the Thames? I am quite weary of it: there it goes, flow, flow, flow, always the same.'" In his old age he deserted Richmond, having taken offence, it is said, at the inhabitants. There is an open space between the towing-path and the railings of the ducal villa that the Duke enclosed and converted to his own use, trusting that fear of his rank, desire to retain his custom, and gratitude for his benefactions--for he was no niggard--would combine to secure the acquiescence of the inhabitants. But these motives proved insufficient; the town commenced an action, which was, of course, successful, and the Duke, deeming its inhabitants ingrates, withdrew to London. There he found occupation in such pleasures as money and rank could purchase--and these could bring more a century since than now. When he became too infirm to move about, he sat on his balcony under a parasol, to ogle the pretty women as they passed by, and died with his bed-quilt strewn with _billets-doux_, which his enfeebled hands could not open--_vanitas vanitatum_. No spot on the Thames, save Hampton Court, is so rich in historic memories as this delightful bit of the river below Richmond Bridge. In the still evening air, as the glow is fading from the west, as the riverside becomes deserted, and the toilers and pleasurers have alike gone home, the ghosts of old times come back, and the actualities of the nineteenth century fade away into the shadows of the past. Tender and pleasant memories would be most in harmony with the scene, and these are by no means absent; the sounds of music and dance are not wanting from the stately walls which our fancy conjures up, nor from the gilded boats which seem to float along the stream. Yet still the more prominent are sad, lurid evenings, presaging coming storm--Edward dying in solitude and dishonour, to leave his kingdom to a feeble fool; Elizabeth, in her overshadowed youth, quitting the palace _tanquam ovis_--to quote her own words; and again, when the brightness of life had passed, dying slowly there, her last hours darkened by many sorrows, not the least being the thought of the unworthy pedant who would take up her sceptre; the parting agony of his eldest son, making way for one whose very virtues were his bane, and whose memory was only redeemed by the mistaken necessity of his execution. These are thoughts tragic enough to darken the recollections of the palace of Richmond, and cast some shadow on a scene which is one of the fairest in the neighbourhood of the metropolis.

We must not, however, pass on from this spot without turning aside from the river to give one glance at Richmond Green, on which the northern front of the palace formerly looked. It is a noble expanse of grass, surrounded by trees, some, probably, survivors of the old elms which bordered it in the days when the Parliamentary commissioners made their visitation; others of more recent planting. Here, where once jousts and tournaments were held--sometimes with fatal result--the lads play at cricket, and the old folk saunter under the shadows of the branches. The enclosing road is bordered with houses of every date, from Queen Anne to Queen Victoria, and among some of the former stands the chief remnant of the palace of the Tudors. It is the gateway of Henry VII.'s structure, a plain four-centred, depressed arch, over which is a mouldering stone still bearing the royal arms. The adjoining house, though modernised, is a part of the ancient façade, and contains a fine old staircase; and the buildings running backward on one side of the courtyard still retain in their walls pieces of the ancient brickwork; and some of their rooms are of interest. One, indeed, is commonly pointed out as that in which Queen Elizabeth died; but the tradition is unworthy of credence. The modern "Queen Annist" will take much pleasure in the contemplation of Maid of Honour Row, a line of houses erected early in the last century. On the stage of the theatre which stands by the Green the best actors of London often appeared, and it is noted as the place where Edmund Kean, stricken by fatal illness while playing the part of Othello, sank into the arms of his son Charles, who was acting Iago. He died shortly afterwards in a small room in an adjoining house, and is buried in the churchyard.

Richmond Church is not without interest, though it is without beauty. There is a much-battered low stone tower, and a body, which dates chiefly from the last century, built of brick, in what may be called the Hanoverian style. It is, however, in good repair, and in excellent order within, and is, at any rate, of more interest than many feeble modern imitations of mediæval work. Several men of note have been buried within its walls, or in its churchyard. Among them is the noted Gilbert Wakefield, sometime vicar of Richmond, one of the victims of the reactionary terror inspired by the French Revolution. James Thomson, the poet, also lies within the walls. Besides these are members of the Fitzwilliam family, who had their residence near the Green, among them being the Earl who enriched the University of Cambridge with a fine collection of paintings and drawings. Lady Di Beauclerk, the friend of Dr. Johnson, with Dr. Moore, the author, father of the hero of Corunna; Mrs. Barbara Holland, also among the well-nigh forgotten names of literature; and many actors besides Edmund Kean have been laid to rest in the precincts of Richmond old church. The increase of the town has caused the building of two other churches, and the institution of a cemetery.

Richmond, though so near abundance of water, has sometimes been in danger, like the ancient mariner, of being without a drop to drink. To use the Thames is, of course, impossible, the present age objecting to dilute sewage; and the supply from other sources has not always been sufficient. A few years ago an attempt was made to obtain a supply from the porous beds which, in most parts of England, succeed to the stiff blue clay underlying the chalk. The result was more interesting to geologists than satisfactory to the ratepayers. As is the case beneath London, this porous stratum was found to be wanting, an upland mass of more ancient rock having evidently interrupted the sea beneath the whole area now occupied by the London district, and the boring tools pierced for nearly seventy yards through more ancient beds, till at last the unprofitable task had to be abandoned.

The stone bridge, which we have already mentioned, is a comparatively modern institution. The Act for its erection was obtained in the year 1773, and prior to that the Thames had to be crossed in a boat. Local chronicles tell us that there was much disputation and some heart-burnings before the site was determined. The design is good, and the light grey of the stone contrasts well with the verdure of the trees and the darkling water of the Thames. The railway bridge--an iron structure--is a doubtful addition to the scenery of the river; like many another institution of modern times, a railway is of unquestionable utility, but the less we see of it the better. However, we may honestly say of this that it might easily be a greater eyesore. Beyond it houses of a substantial character, and their pleasant gardens, continue to border the left bank of the river, but on the right bank the scene quickly changes, and we could fancy ourselves dozens of miles away from the metropolis. The slope of the elevated plateau, which forms so marked a feature from Richmond Bridge, and is climbed in part by the town, has now trended inland. The Thames has struck out for the middle of the shallow valley, along which its present course meanders, and is bordered now on either side by an alluvial plain. This, on the right bank--the inner side of the curve formed by the stream--is occupied by the extensive property belonging to the Crown of England, of which the more northern portion--that known as Kew Gardens--is the more familiar to the London public.

We come first to the more secluded part--the old deer park, a great expanse of meadow-land, dotted, often thickly, by groups of fine trees. This was an appendage of the ancient palace of Richmond, or Sheen, of which mention has already been made. It is separated from the towing-path and causeway, which runs along the riverside, by a shallow ditch or canal, speckled, in the early summer-tide, with the flowers of the water ranunculus. From the stream, or, better still, from this causeway, we enjoy the beauty of the great grassy plain, and its scent as it withers in due season into hay, beneath the heat of the summer sun, and the ever-new grouping of the trees, which thus obviate the possible monotony of meadow scenery. The only building that for some time arrests the eye--if we except a pair of small stone obelisks--is the white house occupied by the Kew Observatory--a not unpleasing structure, which we shall presently notice more in detail. Not far from this, and at the same time no great distance from the old palace of Sheen, was the Carthusian convent, founded some four and a half centuries since by Henry V.

As report has it, the king was much disquieted in his conscience as to the mode in which his father had gained the crown by the deposition and death of Richard II., and as a peace-offering founded, in the year 1414, the Convent of Sheen and the Nunnery of Sion, on the opposite side of the Thames. It was incorporated under the name of the House of Jesus at Sheen, and the rules ordered that when the devotions at the one convent ceased those at the other should begin. These foundations are recorded in the speech assigned by Shakespeare to Henry prior to the Battle of Agincourt:--

"I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Still sing for Richard's soul."

Royally endowed, and pleasantly situated, the monastery of Sheen is not without its place in history. The Prior of Sheen was powerful enough to avert for a time, by his intercession, the due penalty of death from the pretender Perkin Warbeck, who escaped from the Tower and sought refuge within the walls of the monastery. But a second attempt to break prison brought him to the scaffold. To Sheen the body of James IV. of Scotland was brought from the field of Flodden for burial, a purpose which seems to have been unfulfilled, for the corpse, wrapt in lead, was seen lying in a lumber-room some years after the suppression of the monastery. Hard by its walls the noted Dean Colet, founder of St. Paul's School, built himself a small house, to which, for a time, the great Cardinal Wolsey retreated after his disgrace. After the suppression of the monastery its buildings became the possession of more than one noble family in succession. According to Spelman, a curse was upon it, for in less than a century and a half it went to nine owners, never once descending from father to son. It witnessed the marriage of Sir Robert Dudley and Amy Robsart, and the childhood of Lady Jane Grey. In the reign of Mary the monks came back for a brief season, but they had again to cross the seas when Elizabeth reigned. After many changes, demolitions, and additions, a part of the monastery, or a residence upon a portion of its site, was occupied by Sir William Temple, the well-known statesman, and its gardens became the scene of his experiments to discover "how a succession of cherries may be compassed from May to Michaelmas, and how the riches of Sheen vines may be improved by half-a-dozen sorts which are not known here."

Evelyn, who incidentally notices that the abbey precincts had become divided between "several pretty villas and fine gardens of the most excellent fruits," remarks on the excellence of Sir W. Temple's orangery, and the perfect training of the wall-fruit trees in his garden. Here the retired statesman, away from the hurly-burly of politics, meditated on horticulture and indited epistles, while King James was vainly grasping at a tyranny, and the Prince of Orange was marching eastward from Torbay. When that prince became king he visited Temple at Sheen, but after this time the latter chiefly resided at Moor Park; so that it is with this place rather than Sheen that the memory of his young secretary, afterwards the noted Dean of St. Patrick, is associated. All traces of the ancient monastery have now disappeared, the last remains having been destroyed about the year 1769.

The "Kew Observatory," which we have already noticed, stands isolated among the broad meadows, away from dust and noise, and from the reverberation of traffic. It was built for George III. by Sir William Chambers, "for the purpose of studying astronomical science with special reference to the transit of Venus." But after a time its activity declined, and for many years "Kew may be said to have quietly glided into a long winter of hibernation, being under the careful guardianship of a curator and reader." Attention was once directed towards it in a painful way, a double murder having been committed by the janitor, a man named Little, previously much respected in the neighbourhood, who was arrested in the house of his victims and duly executed in the year 1795. The observatory was suppressed by Sir Robert Peel, and the building offered to the Royal Society. That body, however, refused to undertake the charge, as it did not possess any funds applicable for the purpose, but by means of the subscriptions of various men of science, and a grant from the British Association, an observatory for meteorological and electrical observations was established under the charge of a committee, at which much important work was done. In the year 1871 the grant of the British Association was withdrawn, and a sum of £10,000 was placed in the hands of the Royal Society by Mr. Gassiot, for the maintenance of magnetic observations at Kew. It is now under the charge of a committee termed the Meteorological Council, and is the central establishment for observations relating to meteorology. Here instruments relating to this science are tested and marked, and a large amount of most valuable work is executed.

After the little town of Isleworth--which lies on a concave bend of the river, under the lee of some low islands--has been passed, the Thames is bordered on either side by a park, and, for the last time on its course to London, almost shakes itself free of the grasp of the builder. On the one hand the Royal Gardens at Kew succeed to the Old Deer Park; on the other lies the ample domain of the Duke of Northumberland, whose large but ugly house becomes a conspicuous--a too conspicuous--feature in the landscape. We may turn aside for a moment from the property of the Crown to notice that of the house of Percy, once hardly less potent. Sion House, which is separated from the river by a level expanse of meadow, interrupted only by one low mound, which supports some fine old cedars, occupies the site of the second chantry founded by Henry V., as a peace-offering for the sins of his father. The dedication-stone was laid by the king in the year 1416. It was a convent for both sexes, though the nuns predominated, these being sixty in number, while the brethren were only twenty-five. But they were entirely separated, a thick screen dividing them even in the chapel, where, indeed, both sexes were seldom present at the same time, so that all occasion of scandal was carefully avoided. The convent was endowed with the manor of Isleworth, and at a later time received many grants of property which had belonged to the alien priories. Finding the original buildings too small, the society obtained licence to raise themselves a new convent, on the site now occupied by the Duke's mansion, which is rather to the east of that on which the king built. Life glided by smoothly and uneventfully for the inmates; they became rich, and lived easily, but harmlessly, until the crash of the Reformation came. For some reason or other they had incurred the special displeasure of the king, and were accused of harbouring his enemies, and being in collusion with the Holy Maid of Kent. One of the monks, together with the Vicar of Isleworth, was executed at Tyburn. The lands were distributed, but the house and the adjoining property were retained by the Crown, the nuns retreating to Flanders. For a brief space, indeed, in the reign of Queen Mary, they returned to their old home, but on her death again became exiles. The society still continued to exist, though for a while its members suffered great poverty; but at last they settled "in a new Sion on the banks of the Tagus, at Lisbon, in the year 1594. Here they still remain, after the lapse of nearly three centuries, restricting their membership entirely to English sisters, and still retaining the keys of their old home, in the hope, never yet abandoned by them, of eventually returning to it." It is said that some half century or more ago, when they were visited at Lisbon by the then Duke of Northumberland, they told his Grace the story of having carried their keys with them through all their changes of fortune and abode, and that they were still in hopes of seeing their English home again. "But," quietly remarked his Grace, "the locks have been altered since those keys were in use"--a reply which, whether intended or not, had much significance in it. There are many good people in the world who cling tenaciously to the keys which were fabricated by the worthies of olden time, forgetful that the locks have been altered, so that their binding and loosing power is gone.

Doubtless the nuns made their own comments when in later years a gruesome story came from England to them in their new home across the sea. The coffin of Henry VIII., on its journey towards Windsor, was laid for a night within the convent walls; there the bloated corpse within burst, and the blood dropped on the pavement, so that it was licked up by the dogs, as that of the King of Israel in the streets of Samaria. A few months later the convent was granted to the Lord Protector Somerset, who began the building of the present mansion, and when he fell on the scaffold, it was given to Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. There was a curse upon it. Lord Guildford Dudley had it for his home, and from its door he led the Lady Jane, his wife, to the Tower, to claim the throne of England, and receive at last the stroke of the headsman's axe. Elizabeth granted it to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, but he was no exception to the ill-luck of his house, for he was afterwards convicted of being an accomplice in the Gunpowder Plot, disgraced, heavily fined, and imprisoned in the Tower. His son, the tenth earl, repaired the house, and from beneath its roof the children of the ill-fated King Charles were conducted to St. James's Palace to bid their father a last farewell. One of them--Charles II.--held his court here during the Great Plague, and royalty has more than once in later times been a guest within the walls of Sion House. The mansion retains the general outline of the Lord Protector's building, though it has been modernised, and probably made uglier. It is a bleak-looking structure, faced with grey stone, quadrangular in plan, as we note in passing, with embattled square towers at the corner. The principal façade is relieved by an arched terrace, and over the central bay now stands the lion with outstretched tail, once so conspicuous on Northumberland House in the Strand. The gardens and grounds, laid out in the style of the last century, are fine, the plant-houses being especially noted--in fact, they "may be said to be no mean rivals to Kew."

But to these we must return, for the open meads of the Old Deer Park have now been replaced by the groves of Kew. First come the wilder portion of the royal gardens, devoted more especially to forest trees, scenes of sylvan beauty and quiet solitude, as few of the visitors find their way hither, but remain in the more highly cultivated portion, among the plant-houses and the gay parterres, in the neighbourhood of the Richmond road. Yet a more delightful spot for a ramble cannot easily be found; the great trees, feathering down to the sward, cast cool shadows in the summer heat; the long pool here glitters in the light, here lies still and dark beneath overhanging foliage. In due season many a flowering shrub adds a new and more striking diversity to the varied tints of verdure, and the water-lilies expand their cups of gold and silver among their broad floating leaves; the fowl float idly by; the birds twitter among the branches; among the scents of springing grass and of opening flowers, amid the flickering lights and shadows, and the peace of the forest, the roar of London streets dies away from the wearied ears, and the smoke of the town is forgotten in the savour of the pure air.

From the river bank we obtain glimpses from time to time of the glittering roof of the great palm-house, of the various buildings devoted to botanical science, and of the tall pagoda. The history of these gardens, now so great a boon to the dwellers in London, must be briefly sketched, for they are inseparable from the Royal River; and the site of the palace, for a time a favourite residence of kings and princes of England, is but a short distance from its bank, although the walled enclosure prevents so free a view of this as of the other parts of the gardens. The building which now bears the name of "the palace" was, in the earlier part of the last century, called the Old Dutch House. It is a red-brick structure, heavy in style, but not unpleasing, dating from the reign of James I., and probably built by Sir Hugh Portman, a wealthy merchant. Kew House, or "the palace," as it was often called, stood a little more than a hundred yards away, and was obtained on a lease by Caroline, wife of George II., and afterwards purchased by Queen Charlotte. It became the country residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and after his death was inhabited by his widow. Here was spent much of the early life of the young prince, afterwards George III. Brought up in the strictest seclusion, jealously guarded by his mother and her favourite, Lord Bute, he received an education which cramped his faculties and in many respects disqualified him for his future lot. "The king lamented, not without pathos, in his after-life that his education had been neglected. He was a dull lad, brought up by narrow-minded people ... like other dull men the king was all his life suspicious of superior people. He did not like Fox, he did not like Reynolds, he did not like Nelson, Chatham, Burke; he was testy at the idea of all innovations, and suspicious of all innovators. He loved mediocrities."

Here, then, the young princes and princesses, after the death of their weakly and insignificant father, grew up under the guardianship of their stern and unloving mother, assisted, as every one will remember, by Lord Bute, who, at one time, had a fair claim to the title of the most unpopular man in England. It was with him that Prince George was riding when the note was put into his hand which apprised him that an end had come to his grandfather's pleasuring, and that he was king, and at Kew Palace he remained till the following morning. During the first twenty or thirty years of his reign at least three or four months of every year were spent at Kew, where, as has been said, he "played Darby and Joan" with Queen Charlotte, and the young princes and princesses amused themselves like other children in the gardens. The great contrast between the mode of life of this and the preceding reigns was not altogether to the liking of the people; the rarity with which the king appeared in public, or entertained the members of the "upper ten," the infrequency of state ceremonials, gave some colour to the accusation that he affected an Oriental seclusion, and was aiming at establishing a despotism. It had also, in all probability, another ill effect, that the king and queen lost their social influence over the aristocracy, and by standing aside from their position of the leaders did not exert upon its members that influence which would naturally have resulted from the purity and simplicity of their own lives. Certainly, society at large continued hardly less corrupt under the young king, whose reputation was spotless, than it had been when his grandfather kept court with Walmoden and Yarmouth. It was in Kew Palace also that the unfortunate king was secluded during the first attack of that mental disorder which afterwards permanently darkened his life.

The original Kew House was eventually pulled down by George III., who commenced the building of a much larger palace in its neighbourhood. This, which, so far as we can judge from prints, promised to be as ugly as are most structures of that period, was an incomplete shell when the king died, and was happily destroyed by his successor. The Dutch House, however, which was inhabited by the old king, and in a room of which Queen Charlotte died, still remains, though now almost unfurnished and unused. Here, also, in the drawing-room, were celebrated the marriages of two royal dukes, Clarence and Kent, the latter the father of the present Queen.

One other memory also lingers about the precincts of Kew. On the lawn, perhaps a furlong from the old palace, we may notice a sun-dial. This marks the site of a little observatory, wherein, in the year 1725, before the house became a royal residence, James Bradley made the first observations which led to his two important discoveries, that of the aberration of light and of the nutation of the earth's axis. This sun-dial, together with a memorial tablet, was erected by William IV.

Tempting as the "Royal Gardens" appear from the river, the promise is more than fulfilled on closer inspection. Places devoted to the pursuit of science are apt, in their studious severity, to be somewhat repellent to the uninitiated; and even a botanic garden, beautiful as some of its contents must always be, is occasionally no exception to the rule. But this is not the case at Kew. There, indeed, work is not sacrificed to pleasure. Its arrangements are scientific and precise enough to satisfy the most exacting. Its museums and laboratories afford opportunity for the severest study; but yet, in many parts of the garden, nature is so happily blended with art, apparent freedom of growth and association with scientific order and exactness, that as we wander over its lawns, or linger beneath the shadow of its stately trees, we can abandon ourselves simply to the beauties of nature, and "consider the lilies of the field" without counting their stamens or their pistils. The glasshouses, open during certain hours of the day, are often bright with exotic flowers; in the great tank the huge lily from South American rivers opens its blossoms among pond-flowers from sunnier regions than our own. The palm-house enables the home-staying Briton to form some conception of the verdure of a tropical forest. For those who love the formal style of gardening, trim parterres bright with many colours, there is satisfaction on the terraces by the side of the ornamental water, while those who prefer a wilder growth need only wander away towards the outskirts of the garden. On the rockery, which, in its present form, is one of the later additions to the gardens, many an Alpine flower will be seen flourishing in the Valley of the Thames as vigorously as on the crags of the Pennine or Lepontine Alps; while in the new picture gallery--the gift of Miss North--the singular skill and enterprise of the donor enables us to wander among the floral beauties of every land, and to put a girdle of flowers around the earth in much less than forty minutes. But to see Kew Gardens in their glory we should visit them when the rhododendron and its kindred flowers are in bloom. The shrubbery of azaleas is bright with every shade of saffron, and is dappled tenderly with clusters of white and of pink. The great bushes of rhododendron are all aglow with colour, and down the long walk is a many-tinted vista of blossoming shrubs.

Formerly, the pleasaunces at Kew abounded in the absurd anachronisms which, in the days of our great-grandfathers, were supposed to enhance the beauties of a garden--sham ruins, stucco temples, and the like. There was even a Merlin's cave; perhaps, at times, a magician also was on view. These monstrosities have, happily, for the most part, crumbled away, or have been more promptly destroyed; fragments of them have gone to build the rockeries, and served thus some useful purpose in a district where stone is far to find. The Chinese pagoda almost alone survives, conspicuous owing to its height from many points in all the country round, and of this all that we can say is that it is a pagoda upon whose architectural merits we must leave the Chinese to pass a judgment--remarking, meanwhile, that it harms the landscape no more than a water-tower, and considerably less than a factory chimney.

Gliding along the river, past the enclosing wall of the palace, we are confronted on the opposite shore by the houses of Brentford. These we will leave for a moment to finish our say concerning Kew, whose handsome many-arched bridge of grey stone, not unlike that of Richmond, is now coming into view. This bridge was built about the year 1783, replacing an earlier structure. A short distance from it on the Surrey shore, abutting on to one side of the gardens, in the immediate vicinity of the royal palace, is the more ancient part of the village of Kew. Here is the Green, so pleasant a feature in many of these suburban townlets. On one side stands the church, with its little graveyard--the "Chapel of St. Anne," and once a true Queen Anne structure, for the ground was granted by that sovereign, and the church completed in the year 1714. It has, however, undergone many alterations, especially about the year 1838, when it was enlarged at the expense of King William IV., and another "restoration" has lately been completed, during which a chancel has been appended, and the roof of the nave raised. At the same time a mortuary chapel was added, in which is laid the body of the late Duke of Cambridge. He died at Cambridge Cottage, an unpretending mansion looking on to the Green, which remained the property of his widow until her death in 1889. Other persons of note in their day rest in this little God's acre. Aiton, the gardener; Bauer, the microscopist; Kirby, the architect; Meyer and Zoffany, the artists; and, greater far than they, Gainsborough, whom to name is enough, was, by his own desire, buried under a plain tomb in Kew Churchyard. Here also is buried Sir William Hooker, late director of Kew Gardens, to whose repute as a botanist must be added that of developing the resources of the institution, and by his influence obtaining from successive governments the means of founding a great national museum of botany. He was succeeded by his son, Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, the present director, by whom the work thus inaugurated has been no less ably carried on.

We must now turn back to Brentford, where the little Brent, which has made its way from the uplands of Hendon, falls into the Thames. Its aspect from the river, perhaps owing to the contrast which the opposite bank has so long presented, is not attractive. Brentford is a very ancient settlement. Some have thought that this spot was the scene of Cæsar's passage of the Thames; certainly it was the chief town of the Middle Saxons. Were there not also two kings of Brentford? But when did they live? On this, history is silent; but the tradition is an old one. The town has always had a rather unsavoury reputation; "it is referred to by Thomson, Gay, Goldsmith, and others, chiefly on account of its dirt." Indeed, the remarks on it might be thus summed up:--There are three kings at Cologne, and two at Brentford, and in the matter of odours the towns are proportional.

Some of the views in the neighbourhood of Kew Bridge are very pretty; the houses by the riverside often group picturesquely; the stream is diversified by one or two wooded islands; barges floating down the Thames, or moored against its banks, combine well in foreground and middle distance; but after this there comes an uninteresting interval. The right bank is occupied largely by market gardens, the land lies low, and in places has an unkempt aspect; the passenger by the towing-path sees heaps suggestive of refuse to other senses than that of sight, but as Mortlake is neared the prospect again brightens on the right bank of the river, though the left remains rather monotonous. Some attractive houses stand by the waterside. There is the well-known "Ship" Inn, and the odour which is sometimes wafted from the shore, though due to art rather than to nature, is more pleasant than that of most chemical processes, for it is suggestive of good English beer. Mortlake has lost its tapestry works and its potteries, but it has retained its brewery. Once every year Mortlake is numbered among the famous places of England, for here is a limit, generally the winning-post, of the aquatic Derby--the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race. This we shall presently mention a little more fully. Enough now to cast a glance at the townlet itself, which, like all places near London, is developing, and becoming more townlike.

The name of Mortlake appears in English records at a very early date, as it was an important manor belonging to the Archbishopric of Canterbury. The manor itself appears to have included much more than the present parish, but the house was in the village. It was a not unfrequent residence of the archbishops down to the time of Cranmer, by whom the lands were alienated in exchange to the king. Only the tower of the church is old, and this is not particularly interesting; the remainder is Hanoverian, and suitable to its period. Here are entombed Dee and Partridge, the astrologers; Philip Francis, the supposed author of "Junius"; and John Bernard, Sir Robert Walpole's "only incorruptible Member of Parliament"; while in the neighbourhood lived Colston, the philanthropist; Jesse, the naturalist, and Henry Taylor, author of "Philip van Artevelde"--a fair share of celebrities for a quiet little suburban town.

Just beyond Mortlake is the village of Barnes, with the bridge of the South-Western Railway spanning the Thames. The houses and gardens by the riverside give a bright and homelike aspect to the scene. The church incorporates fragments of an ancient building, and the rectory has been occupied by more than one clergyman of mark. Inland, stretching back across the peninsula, and thus offering a short cut from Putney, well known to the frequenters of boat-races, lies Barnes Common--a breezy spot, bright in summer with blossoming furze, which happily is still sacred from the builder, and untouched by the landscape gardener.

From Kew Bridge down to Putney Bridge Father Thames follows a course even more serpentine than usual. Its double loop forms an almost regular S, the axis of each fold lying nearly north and south. The general direction of its flow also has changed, from a northerly to an easterly course; thus, at Mortlake, we are again brought by the river into the vicinity, comparatively speaking, of Richmond Park, on its northern side; while, on the left bank, Chiswick may almost be said to make two appearances on the riverside. The older part, however, of this place lies below Mortlake. It still retains traces of its ancient picturesqueness, when Chiswick House was a favourite residence of the Dukes of Devonshire, and its fêtes among the chief events of a London season. Chiswick is, however, greatly changed since then--still more from the days when it was the home of Hogarth, whose tomb is in the churchyard. New houses have sprung up, the iron-roofed sheds of a ship-building establishment--devoted especially to the construction of torpedoes--uglify, if the word be permitted, the margin of the Thames, and the incessant clang of hammers disturbs the peace of the stream. Henceforth, we find ourselves within the grasp of the metropolis. Once or twice, it is true, the river seems to slip away again into the freedom of the fields, but it is only for a brief space; it is soon prisoned again between the walls of the workshop, or doomed to remain in sight of the unsightly performances of the nineteenth-century builder.

Between Putney and Mortlake, a distance of about four miles, is the course of the annual Inter-University Boat-race--the water Derby, as it is sometimes called--which, for a brief season, diverts busy London from its daily routine, engrossing almost universal attention, and even imparting to the streets and shop-windows a tinge of blue; for, as all the world knows, dark-blue and light-blue are the respective colours of Oxford and of Cambridge. From the humblest to the highest in the land, from the crossing-sweeper to the Bond Street exquisite, from the flower-girl to the peeress, each one wears the colour of his or her favourite University; though some, it must be admitted, prudently purchase reversible ribbons, and, after the race, take care to make a change, if needful, and duly sport the winning colour. Never does the Blue-ribbon Army seem to have enlisted so many recruits as during the few days prior to Palm Sunday, the race being, by a custom which may be regarded as established, rowed on the Saturday preceding this festival. Some time, however, elapsed after the first contest took place before either time or place were finally settled. The Oxonians had a preference for the beginning of the summer vacation, a time which was not acceptable to the Cantabs; some, also, of the earlier races were rowed on other parts of the Thames--as at Henley, or between Westminster and Putney. Owing to difficulties in coming to an agreement on these points, as well as from other causes, the contest at first was of an intermittent character. The first race, rowed over a much shorter course at Henley, and won by Oxford, was in 1829. Between this date and 1845 there were only five races, all rowed from Westminster to Putney, and four of these were won by Cambridge. The first race over the present course was in 1845, and in the next year outriggers were used for the first time, all the earlier races taking place in what are now contemptuously called tubs. The race has come off regularly each year since 1856, and its direction has been, in almost every case, from Putney to Mortlake. Oxford has scored several more triumphs, on the whole, than Cambridge. The most exciting episode ever witnessed was in 1859, when the Cambridge boat sank near Barnes Bridge. The crew of that year was an exceptionally powerful one, and was looked upon as safe to win. But the builder of their "eight" had supplied them with a boat which was hardly up to their weight--at any rate, for a river liable, like the Thames, to be rough and lumpy on occasion. The ill-luck of Cambridge is almost proverbial; the water was as choppy as it could well be, and the water slowly swamped the Cambridge boat. Those who watched the race will remember how its crew struggled gallantly on, falling gradually behind their rivals; rowing magnificently, though their boat seemed held back by some invisible force, till at last it filled with water and sank under them as they bent to the stroke. Fortunately--though in those days there was little restriction on the number of steamers that were allowed to follow the race, and no means of preventing them from pressing on the losing boat in their struggle for the better point of view--no life was lost, and no one was even hurt. Now that danger--and, owing to the characteristic English recklessness and selfishness, it was rapidly becoming a very serious one--has been averted; for only four steamers are permitted to follow the competitors, these being respectively for the Umpire, the Press, and the members of each University.

Another source of danger has been removed of late years. In the earlier times of the race the old Hammersmith Suspension Bridge became a favourite station for spectators of the humbler rank, as it commanded a good view in both directions; and, though it was not quite half way on the course, by the time it was reached by the boats the race was often practically decided. Indeed, it was a saying, rarely falsified, that the race would be won by the boat which passed under the bridge clear of its opponent. On this bridge crowds continued to gather even when it had been condemned as unsafe; after a certain hour vehicles were stopped, and the concourse thickened; adventurous boys managed to mount the chains, to be pulled down at first, ignominiously, by the police; but at last now one, now another, as the throng gathered, contrived to elude the guardians of the law, and soon scrambled up to secure heights. The roadway became a black mass, a string of blackbeetles seemed to have taken possession of the chains, and the bridge carried a load of human beings that probably the engineer who constructed it never for a moment contemplated. There was the additional and yet graver danger from the shifting of the pressure as the crowd attempted to follow the boats when they shot beneath, or as the possible result of a panic; so that at last the bridge had to be closed alike to foot-passengers and to carriages for most of the day. The old wooden bridge at Putney used also to be crowded--as the new one still is, by those who prefer to see the start; Barnes railway bridge has another contingent brought hither by trains, and in many places the riverside is thronged. Barges are moored in the stream, stands are erected in gardens by its side; the towing-path on the Surrey side is black with people. When the boats are off a string of vehicles may be seen tearing at full speed across Barnes Common. These contain enthusiasts, who, after having witnessed the start at Putney, take the short cut across the peninsula in hopes of seeing the finish at Mortlake. A hoarse roar goes up from the crowd as the two boats, looking strangely small in the wide open space of water, are espied coming round the bend of the river; so light are they that the crews seem almost to sit upon the water. Their oar-blades flash in the sun. They dart past, perhaps in conflict, perhaps the one a length or two ahead of the other; the steamers follow close upon them, sending up a surging wave on either bank, whose arrival at the shore is signalised by conspicuous commotion among the spectators at the river brink, as the chilly water unexpectedly sweeps around their ankles; the boats pass out of sight round another corner; the race will be over in a moment, and when the news comes the brief excitement of the day is ended.

The crowd now may be reckoned by hundreds of thousands. The railways are gorged, and as the time of the race approaches, every street leading to the course is thronged by carriages and pedestrians. Even so far away as the end of Westbourne Terrace, the throng on the Bayswater Road and its steady westward progress would attract the notice of the most casual observer. Yet this intense excitement, this concentration of popular interest on the two Universities, is of much later date than the establishment of the race itself. A quarter of a century since, the attendance was by no means great; now, long as is the course, and many as are the stations which divide the attractions, only a wet day or a very early hour (the time of the race depends on the tide) keeps the concourse within any moderate limits.

Hammersmith, now united to London, offers few inducements to the tourist "in search of the picturesque," though, of course, it is hard to find any riverside place where some nook or corner may not offer a sketch to the artist. Its old suspension bridge--so noted a point, as stated above, in the history of boat-races--has now been succeeded by a more substantial structure, opened in 1887.

The reach of the river from Hammersmith to Putney is comparatively quiet, and the marshy condition of the left bank has compelled the builder to keep at a distance; so that though lines of houses may be seen inland, they are parted from the water by extensive osier beds. We turn our backs disgustedly on the cement works, and glance forward to the more open country beyond, where are houses scantily scattered among trees, and the "Old Crab Tree" Inn. On the right bank a considerable tract of meadow-land still remains unenclosed, on which occasionally there is some fair hedgerow timber, and from which, in summer, the pleasant scent of new-mown grass is wafted; willows rustle by the towing-path, and the white poplar sheds its downy seeds beneath our feet. Bushes grow freely on the river bank, and now and then, for a moment, hide the water. For the last time, if no snorting steamer or screaming steam-launch, laden with holiday-makers, chance to be in sight, or, still worse, in hearing, the Thames for a moment resumes something of its former peaceful aspect, although the fact that the tidal character of the river has now become conspicuous makes it needful to consult the almanack before paying it a visit--at least, for those who desire to appreciate the real beauty of the scene. The most tempting spot is reached as we begin to approach Putney, where we obtain from the path a view of an old-fashioned brick mansion, standing among lawns and fields which are shadowed by some noble elms. This mansion bears the appropriate name of Barn Elms, which, as it has been remarked, seems to indicate that the trees have always been a distinctive feature of the grounds. It has long been a place of some note. Sir Francis Walsingham, minister of Elizabeth, formerly lived here, and more than once entertained his queen--too often, it is said, for the prosperity of his purse. Cowley, the poet, also was for a time an inmate of Barn Elms, and both decorous Evelyn and frolicsome Pepys came here a-pleasuring. In an adjacent building lived old Jacob Tonson, noted among the bibliophiles of the reign of Queen Anne; and here were the head-quarters of the noted Kitcat Club. In a large room erected by him was placed the famous collection of portraits of its members, painted by the hand of Sir Godfrey Kneller, which, from their being all three-quarter length, have given their name to portraits of this kind. The club-room, which was separated from the mansion by a garden, after falling into a dilapidated condition, was pulled down in the early part of the present century.

Somewhere among these trees was fought the notorious duel between two fine gentlemen of the age of the Restoration--the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Shrewsbury--when, as it is said, the wife of the latter, disguised as a page-boy, stood by, holding the horse of her paramour. The Earl received a fatal wound, and the lady went home to the Duke's house. It is needless to say that the Court was not particularly scandalised, or the Duke "sent to Coventry," on account of this affair. Barn Elms is now the home of the Ranelagh Club. Nearly opposite, in the immediate neighbourhood of the river, is Craven Cottage, a quasi-rustic retreat, which in its day has been frequented by various personages of note. It was built originally for the Countess of Craven, afterwards Margravine of Anspach; but subsequently has been considerably altered. Here afterwards lived Sir E. Bulwer-Lytton, and entertained Louis Napoleon, after his escape from Ham; at a later period it was the residence of an aristocratic money-lender.

Barn Elms passed, we approach the twin villages--though the term is no longer applicable, for they are now suburbs of London--of Putney and of Fulham, one on either side of the stream. Much alike in their churches, they still differ, and once differed yet more, in other characteristics. For many years Putney has been a centre of London aquatics, which have set their mark on the riverside. Except for the broader stream, an Oxonian or a Cantab might fancy himself at certain spots by Cam or Isis. There are the boat-houses on the same nondescript pattern, the sheds sheltering eights and fours and "funnies"--or whatever name be used to designate the cranky one-man racing boats--the usual flags indicating the head-quarters of the different rowing clubs, the usual specimens of the amphibious race that is peculiar to the riverside where oarsmen most do congregate; in short, the waterside at Putney is a rather odd, not wholly unpicturesque, and somewhat unique bit of Thames scenery.

The old wooden bridge, supported on piles, which formerly united Putney and Fulham was a very picturesque and decidedly inconvenient, not to say dangerous, structure. As there has already been occasion to indicate, it has now been superseded by a new one of stone, built a few yards higher up the stream.

The noise of mimic strife on the river, or at worst a holiday-maker's brawl, is all that disturbs the peace of Putney in the present day, but in olden time the town was for a time the head-quarters of an army. In the year 1642 forts were built both here and at Fulham to protect a bridge of boats which was thrown across the Thames; and again, in 1647, Cromwell encamped at Putney for some time. The memory of another Cromwell, only less noted, is connected yet more closely with the place, for here was born Thomas Cromwell, minister of Henry VIII. The old wooden bridge also must have been traversed many a time by one of our most noted men of letters; in Putney, Gibbon, the historian, was not only born, but also received his earlier education.

The ground somewhat rises from the water, on the Surrey side, towards Putney Heath, but on the Fulham side it lies low. From the stream above the bridge will be seen the trees of the domain belonging to the Bishops of London; its ample precincts are enclosed by a moat, even on the riverside, a raised causeway dividing it from the Thames. Very little of the manor-house, or "palace," is visible from the water, as its buildings are not lofty, and it is surrounded by trees. The manor has been the property of the bishopric from a very early date; even at the time of the Norman survey "in Foleham the Bishop of London held forty hides." The palace is a rambling brick structure, more like a college than a mansion, reminding us of some of the colleges at Cambridge. No part is of very great antiquity; the older forms a quadrangle, and was erected by Bishop Fitzjames, in the reign of Henry VII. Some of the earlier buildings were pulled down about the year 1715, as the palace had become in part ruinous, and was found to be needlessly large. This was done by the advice of Commissioners, among whom were Vanbrugh and Christopher Wren. The hall belongs to the older part of the palace; the chapel is new; the library was built in all probability by Bishop Sheldon, and contains a collection of books, to which Bishop Porteus was the first and an important donor. Considerable additions, increasing the comfort rather than the beauty of the house, were made in the earlier part of the present century. The library is a valuable one, and there is a fine collection of portraits of former occupants of the see, interesting to the students alike of history and of English fashions and faces--the last subject, dealing in what we may term the natural history of the Englishman, being remarkably well illustrated by the long series of men of one profession, and approximately of one period of life. Except for its rather objectionable situation, lying so near the level of the Thames, Fulham Palace must be a most attractive residence. The grounds occupy about thirty-seven acres, and the shrubberies have long been noted, some of the rarer trees being of unusual size and beauty. Special attention was paid to the horticulture of Fulham so long since as the days of Bishop Grindall; and Bishop Compton added to its attractions by planting a large number of rare shrubs and trees--or what were in his day rare--chiefly from North America.

The church, as has been said, resembles that of Putney, but is the more handsome building, standing in a spacious and well-kept churchyard. As might be anticipated from its proximity to the home of the Bishop of the diocese, it has been carefully restored, and, though without any architectural features of special interest, is a very fair specimen of a parish church. It has evidently been much improved since the year 1816, when, in a well-known work on the "Beauties of England and Wales," it is described as "a respectable structure, destitute of uniformity," and the tower is said to be "defaced" by incongruous modern battlements, and by "a mean octagonal spire of wood, surmounted by a flagstaff and vane." Many of the Bishops of London--especially of those since the Restoration--are entombed either in the church or the churchyard--mostly in the latter. The latest to be laid there was the last occupant of the see, the amiable and judicious Bishop Jackson, who officiated in the church on the final Sunday of his life, and while walking thither suffered from a premonitory seizure of the disease which so speedily proved fatal. Some of the monuments within the church are worth a passing notice, though the more striking are seventeenth or eighteenth century work. The grave of Lowth will attract the eyes of those who honour learning. There is a not unpleasing mural monument in memory of Miss Katharine Hart, who "lived vertuouslye, and dyed godlie ye 23rd daie of Octo., 1605;" but most amusing--if we may use such an epithet--is a large monument under the tower to a certain "nobilissimus heros Johannes Mordaunt," created Viscount Aviland by Charles II. Of this worthy there is a statue, and the artist has contrived to infuse into the pose and the face such an air of infinite superiority that it must have been quite a condescension on the part of his lordship to breathe the common air.

The market gardens of Fulham, formerly so noted, are, to a large extent, covered by buildings; the once quiet village has practically become incorporated with London. Below Putney Bridge we never cease to be reminded that we are now on the very margin of the metropolis; that its growth is rapid, and its boundaries accordingly are ragged and unattractive. Immediately below the bridge on the right bank is a fine-looking terrace, and on the left some pleasant houses and gardens, survivals of more ancient days, when Putney and Fulham were country villages, and the fisheries of the latter were leased for an annual rent of "three salmon;" it is only seventy years since they were spoken of as a "source of local profit." Beyond these riverside residences lies Hurlingham, notorious for its pigeon-shooting. On the opposite shore we presently pass the houses of Wandsworth, whereof the brewery is the most prominent, if not the most attractive object.

But as we come to Battersea Reach the signs of industry and commerce thicken around us; works of various kinds line the banks; the Surrey shore, once the more lovely, is now being covered thick with unattractive buildings. On the Middlesex side some traces of older days still occasionally linger--boulders of more solid rock incorporated in the clay of modern masonry--but farewell to the characteristic scenery of the River Thames, farewell to all natural beauty; its waters have now become a great highway of commerce. They have no rest by day, and not always by night, from the fussy steamer and the laden barge; they are turbid with mud, inodorous also, sometimes, with the foulness and garbage of a huge town. The history of the Thames is the history of many a river of England, and may be summed up in Charles Kingsley's words:--

"Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle and foaming wear; Under the crag where the ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings; Undefiled, for the undefiled, Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

"Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the further I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child."

/T. G. Bonney/.