Greenwich, for instance, with its white-bait dinner, invites the epicure during the best part of the London season. A favourite tavern is the Trafalgar—in which each room is named after some magnate of the old British navy; and Nelson, Hardy, and Rodney are household words. Another cheery place of resort is The Ship. The Hospitals are at Greenwich that Dr. Johnson thought to be too fine for a charity; and back of these—which are ordinary enough now, in comparison with modern structures erected for a kindred purpose—stands the famous Observatory that keeps time for Europe. This place is hallowed also by the grave of Clive and by that of Wolfe—to the latter of whom, however, there is a monument in Westminster Abbey. Greenwich makes one think of Queen Elizabeth, who was born there, who often held her court there, and who often sailed thence, in her barge, up the river to Richmond—her favourite retreat and the scene of her last days and her pathetic death. Few spots can compare with Richmond, in brilliancy of landscape. That place—the Shene of old times—was long a royal residence. The woods and meadows that you see from the terrace of the Star and Garter tavern—spread upon a rolling plain as far as the eye can reach—sparkle like emeralds; and the Thames, dotted with little toy-like boats, shines with all the deep lustre of the blackest onyx. Richmond, for those who honour genius and who love to walk in the footsteps of renown, is full of interest. Dean Swift once had a house there, the site of which is still indicated. Pope's rural home was in the adjacent village of Twickenham,—where it may still be seen. Horace Walpole's stately mansion of Strawberry Hill is not far off. The poet Thomson long resided at Richmond, in a house now used as an hospital, and there he died. Edmund Kean and the once famous Mrs. Yates rest beneath Richmond church, and there also are the ashes of Thomson. As I drove through the sweetly sylvan Park of Richmond, in the late afternoon of a breezy summer day, and heard the whispering of the great elms, and saw the gentle, trustful deer couched at ease in the golden glades, I heard all the while, in the still chambers of thought, the tender lament of Collins—which is now a prophecy fulfilled:
"Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest."
