RICHMOND.
Four weeks in London! Twenty-eight days of incessant sight-seeing. A
series of continual surprises day after day, from early in the morning
until late at night; a constant succession of new things of interest
crowded and forced upon one, until at length the senses weary, the mind
refuses to take in any more, and imperatively cries out for a change,
for rest. The body is exhausted. The dull, dense atmosphere is
enervating. A night's sleep gives no refreshment. One rises in the
morning by sheer force of will power, with a feeling that it would be a
delight, pure and simple, to go back to bed and sleep five or six hours
longer, and when he does finally dress and go out on the street, he has
no more ambition, nor inclination to do anything, or go anywhere, or see
anything, than as if there were nothing to do, nowhere to go, nor
anything to see. But that is what he is here for, and from force of
habit he goes on the everlasting treadmill of sight-seeing, until the
very name of London is odious, and its never-ending throng of people,
hurrying along in the pursuit of pleasure or business, that, at first,
was such a novel and interesting study, becomes distasteful to a degree,
and he wishes he were home again or in some vast wilderness,
or--anywhere, away from the narrow, crowded streets of high wall, and
old-fashioned buildings, that stifle all his energies and tire his very
nature.
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.
[Sidenote: 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.
Here the streets were narrow, the houses low and old-fashioned, and the
people quiet-going English, who have lived in the same place where their
fathers lived before them, and their's before them.
[Sidenote: DOWN THE RIVER.]
Passing the cattle market, which is about the only live business of
Kingston, a large square stone, surrounded by an iron railing, attracts
attention. Examination shows it to be the identical stone upon which sat
the ancient Saxon Kings when they were crowned. There was nothing
particularly peculiar about the stone, but of course it would not have
done to have gone by without at least casting a glance at the relic of
so long ago. Possibly the proper thing to do was to uncover and drop a
tear as the memories of the glorious scenes thereon enacted went
trooping through the mind. Possibly it would have been the thing to sit
on the queer old stone and imagine the space around filled with warlike
chiefs and outlandishly arrayed ladies of the Court, and indulge in a
day dream of the times when such things occurred. Possibly this may have
been the thing to do, but it wasn't done, and for good reasons, too.
Even if one had had the inclination to act in such an orthodox,
sight-seeing manner, which is much doubted, there was a high iron
railing, with sharp pointed iron palings, that would have effectually
kept the greatest enthusiast outside the sacred enclosure.
Passing on through the town, the long walk begins to tell upon one's
powers of endurance, so a rest is taken at "Bond's." Who has not heard
of Bond's, the great resort of boating parties on the Thames? It is
noted all over England, and its fame has spread even to America. A
pleasant Summer garden, with trees and plants and flowers, gravelly
walks and rustic arbors, on a high terrace, at the bottom of which the
limpid stream glides smoothly along, while beyond, as far as the eye can
reach, is the beautiful scenery that seems almost like fairyland. What
better place can be imagined for a lunch--a biscuit and a bit of cheese,
washed down with a pint of refreshing "shandygaff." One could drink the
bad beer of the country here. It is truly delightful. And then a quiet
smoke, the light clouds curling upward in an atmosphere as pure and
clear as the air of life; while all that is poetic in one's nature is
appealed to by the beauty of the scene, the sense of delicious comfort,
and the faint music of distant boating parties, who, singing as they
row, make a harmony that intensifies the pleasure of the hour, and makes
one almost wish that this most perfect day might go on forever.
But still a greater treat is in store. A ride back to Richmond on the
water, rowed by a brawny waterman, who does, as a matter of business,
exactly the same thing that so many of the "swells," who are seen
skimming past in their graceful single sculls, are doing for pleasure.
"Why," said I to the waterman, "do you make us pay for doing what those
men do for nothing?"
"Ah!" was his reply, "'spose they 'ad to!"
Philosophic waterman! Whether any given exercise is pleasure or pain
depends very much whether one "has to." The London jarvey drives a four
in hand for one pound a week, and Lord Tom Noddy does precisely the same
thing for the fun of it. One has to, and the other hasn't, and there's
the difference.
By this time the river is full of pleasure crafts. Here comes an
eight-oared shell, whizzing along at a rattling pace, the little
cockswain urging the crew on to still greater efforts as he skilfully
guides the long, slender boat through the multitude of pleasure barges
and skiffs. Over there is a trim craft gliding along lazily, a pair of
brawny arms just moving the oars, while a pair of honest, manly eyes are
speaking in unmistakable language to a fair-haired girl who is reclining
in the stern, idly tossing the tassels to the rudder strings, as if she
didn't care about what was being said, even though the swift glances
from under her broad brimmed hat, and the mantling crimson on her cheek,
tell an entirely different tale.
[Illustration: ON THE THAMES.]
[Sidenote: A PLEASANT PLACE TO LIVE.]
Just beyond is a boat, large and roomy, in which five young ladies are
enjoying the pleasure of the hour. While four of them pull strong and
gracefully, the fifth steers the rapidly moving lapstreak with a skill
and precision that shows a master hand. These English girls may be
laughed at by their more delicate American cousins, but in the matter
of health and strength, they are the ones to laugh. They believe in
plenty of exercise in the open air, and they take it; as, for example,
these girls, beautiful as a picture, who row as perfectly and in as good
"form" as though they had always been on the water. See the perfection
of their development, the ruddy glow of health in their cheeks, the
merry sparkle of the eye, the gladness in their hearty laugh, and then
talk about the usefulness of outdoor exercise.
Every stroke of the oar as the boat speeds merrily down the river,
reveals a new picture, each one as perfect in its completeness as that
which preceded it.
On the left bank are the country seats of gentlemen of means. They are
for the most part odd looking old places, with their angular towers and
turrets, and bowed windows long and narrow. The lawns sloping gradually
from the house down to the water's edge are perfectly smooth, and
ornamented with clustering chestnuts and laburnums, elms and lindens,
and the green foliaged birch, while the green hedges, wonderfully well
kept, add to the general effect of the scene. The river winds in and out
among all the charming places, for seven miles, and the town of Richmond
is seen far off in the distance.
As the river makes a sudden bend there appears still another picture,
the masterpiece of the series that has delighted the senses for the last
two hours. There on the bluff stands the picturesque "Star and Garter."
with its background of foliage. Just below is a portion of an old stone
bridge across the Thames, while to the left the beautiful landscape
stretches away to the distant hills, whose summits are lost in the
purple haze of the closing day. It is a sight never to be forgotten; one
that will linger ever upon the memory as a revelation of the absolutely
beautiful in Nature.