So it seemed—so it really was—after four weeks’ stay in London, when one forenoon a trip down to Richmond, twelve miles away, was suggested. The suggestion was acted upon with alacrity, and half-an-hour’s ride produced a change such as one sees in the transformation scenes of a pantomime. Vanished the dull, heavy air; gone all the queer old buildings, with their still queerer old people; hushed the noise and bustle of the streets, with their never-ceasing turmoil of struggling humanity and ever-rolling ’ansoms, and instead a bright blue sky with a glorious flood of sunlight, its fierceness tempered by a gentle breeze, cool and delicious, that was breathing through the grand old oaks, and stirred with gentle ripple the placid bosom of the Thames, which wanders like a ribbon of silver through the wonderful meadows and dales of the beautiful country that makes Richmond seem like a paradise.
The first feeling was one of relief—that the terrors of London had been left far behind; and there was light and air and happiness again. Then this gave way to exultation. The pure air intoxicated, the green trees, the velvety turf, the warbling of the birds, after four long, dreary weeks in London, caused the heart to throb with new life, the blood to course through the veins with new strength, and there came an almost irresistible desire to throw up one’s hands and shout for very gladness. It was almost too good to be real, and once in a while one really stopped to think whether or not he would suddenly awaken and find himself in dingy, smoky London.
But no. It was all real. The pure air was there, the sunlight, the breeze, the green turf, the magnificent trees, centuries old. All, all were there, and the day was to be one of unalloyed pleasure and happiness. God made the country—man made the town.
In all truth Richmond is a most charming place. Only twelve miles from the metropolis, and in reality one of its many suburbs, it nestles among the hills, and looks off upon a broad expanse of field and meadow and forest, as though there were no such place as London in existence. It is not a commercial city, although of course it has its quota of shops. It is a residence city—or, as they call it, town—for, although it has a population of one hundred thousand, there is no cathedral, so it cannot aspire to the dignity of being a city. The town is made up in great part of families whose members do business “in the city,” and they live in quiet elegance in beautiful homes. That is the ideal suburban existence.
THE STAR AND GARTER.
But aside from the quaint beauty of the town itself, its chiefest perfection is in its environs. A few minutes’ walk from the heart of the town is that famous hostelry, known the world over, “The Star and Garter,” where, in olden times, royalty disported itself under its moss-covered roof, in grand entertainments lasting for days at a time. For generations it was the resort of nobles, and then, when they tired of it, the people, imitating them as far as they were able, took it up and basked in the mellow light of its former grandeur, which has long since departed, it having become unfashionable.
Gay old times these noble roysterers used to have in this beautiful spot. The wines of the South, actually cobwebbed and dusty, flowed like water, and the most delicious food, brought from the forests and seas of all climes, graced the board. It was no trouble to them. They had no occasion to count expense as the people who go there now have to. For they had their tenants working for them at home, and they had their armies and fleets bringing them wealth from everywhere, and they could afford to eat, drink and be merry, and they did it all.
To be a King in those days was a very comfortable thing, except when some sturdy commoner, like Cromwell, tired of all this, and cut off a head. Opposed as I am to royalty and nobility and all that sort of thing, had I lived in those days I should very much liked to have been even a Duke. It wasn’t a bad situation, at all.
It is no wonder that the Star and Garter was a great favorite, and is yet in its way, for it is most beautifully situated. Standing in its broad verandas there is a rural panorama spread out that is simply superb. Near at hand is the Park, filled with gnarled old trees, under whose branches hundreds of years ago haughty ladies and imperious lords indulged in courtly pleasures, or engaged in intrigues where the nobles amused themselves in hunting the wild deer that ranged across its commons; where the flower of the youth of the country met in fierce tournaments, with all the pride and pomp of the time. Just below the cliff is the Thames, placid and serene, that winds in and out the wooded lands in graceful curves, while beyond, rising not boldly and grandly, but none the less beautiful, are green hills, dotted here and there with clumps of beautiful oaks and pines; dales and valleys that give us a view miles in extent. Over all this picture, to which no pen can do justice, is that marvelous atmospheric effect that can only be found in an English woodland scene. Not a mist, and yet a delicate haze, soft and subdued, that tones down the broad effects and gives the whole a perfection that is enchanting. One can stand, as before a magnificent painting, gazing for hours upon the scene and find new features every instant.
And then the long walk through the Park, itself a marvel of the picturesque. Along winding paths, over rustic hedges, resting here under the cooling shade of a huge chestnut, whose branches cover a vast extent of ground, stopping anon to admire the graceful deer that gaze timidly and yet curiously at the passer-by, as though wondering why he should trespass upon their domain. For a whole hour there was a continual revelation of natural beauties, and then suddenly the old town of Kingston was entered.