1519. Leonardo da Vinci, the painter, died.
[Illustration: ~Richmond.~]
In the beginning of May, a steam-boat for conveying passengers ascends
the Thames in the morning from Queenhithe to Richmond, and returns the
same day; and so she proceeds to and fro until the autumn. Before she
unmoors she takes in little more than half her living freight, the
remainder is obtained during the passage. Her band on deck plays a
lively tune, and “off she goes” towards Blackfriars’-bridge. From
thence, leisurely walkers, and holiday-wishing people, on their way to
business, look from between the balustrades on the enviable steamer;
they see her lower her chimney to pass beneath the arch, and ten to one,
if they cross the road to watch her coming forth on the other side, they
receive a puff from the re-elevating mast; this fuliginous rebuke is
inspiring.
_A Legal Lament._
Ye Richmond Navigators bold all on the liquid plain,
When from the bridge we envied you, with pleasure mix’d with pain,
Why could you be so cruel as to ridicule our woes,
By in our anxious faces turning up your steamer’s nose?
’Twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wonderous
Pitiful, as Shakspeare says, by you then being under us,
To be insulted as we were, when you your chimney rose
And thought yourselves at liberty to cloud our hopes and clothes.
The same sweet poet says, you know, “each dog will have his day,”
And hence for Richmond we, in turn, may yet get under weigh.
So thus we are consoled in mind, and as to being slighted,
For that same wrong, we’ll right ourselves, and get you all
indicted.
*
The steam-boat is a good half hour in clearing the port of London, and
arriving at Westminster; this delay in expedition is occasioned by
“laying to” for “put offs” of single persons and parties, in Thames
wherries. If the day be fine, the passage is very pleasant. The citizen
sees various places wherein he has enjoyed himself,--he can point out
the opening to Fountain-court, wherein is the “coal-hole,” the resort of
his brother “wolves,” a club of modern origin, renowned for its support
of Mr. Kean; on the left bank, he shows the site of “Cuper’s-gardens,”
to which he was taken when a boy by his father’s foreman, and where the
halfpenny-hatch stood; or he has a story to tell of the
“Fox-under-the-hill,” near the Strand, where Dutch Sam mustered the
fighting Jews, and Perry’s firemen, who nightly assisted John Kemble’s
“What d’ye want,” during the “O. P. row,” at Covent-garden theatre. Then
he directs his attention to the Mitre, at Stangate, kept by “independent
Bent,” a house celebrated for authors who “flourish” there, for “actors
of all work,” and artists of less prudence than powers. He will tell you
of the capital porter-shops that were in Palace-yard before the old
coffee-houses were pulled down, and he directs you to the high chimney
of _Hodges’s_ distillery, in Church-street, Lambeth. He stands erect,
and looks at Cumberland-gardens as though they were his freehold--for
there has he been in all his glory; and at the Red-house, at Battersea,
he would absolutely go ashore, if his wife and daughters had not gone so
far in geography as to know that Richmond is above Battersea-bridge.
Here he repeats after Mathews, that Battersea-steeple, being of copper,
was coveted by the emperor of Russia for an extinguisher; that the
horizontal windmill was a case for it; and that his imperial majesty
intended to take them to Russia, but left them behind from
forgetfulness. Others see other things. The grounds from which the walls
of Brandenburgh-house were rased to the foundation, after the decease
of fallen majesty--the house wherein Sharp, the engraver, lived after
his removal from Acton, and died--the tomb of Hogarth, in Chiswick
church-yard--“Brentford town of mud,” so immortalized by one of our
poets, from whence runs Boston-lane, wherein dwelt the good and amiable
Granger, who biographized every Englishman of whom there was a
portrait--and numerous spots remarkable for their connection with some
congenial sentiment or person.
The Aits, or Osier Islands, are picturesque interspersions on the
Thames. Its banks are studded with neat cottages, or elegant villas
crown the gentle heights; the lawns come sweeping down like carpets of
green velvet, to the edge of its soft-flowing waters, and the grace of
the scenery improves till we are borne into the full bosom of its
beauty--the village of Richmond, or as it was anciently called, Sheen.
On coming within sight of this, the most delightful scene in our
sea-girt isle, the band on board the steam-boat plays “the lass of
Richmond-hill,” while the vessel glides on the translucent water, till
she curves to the bridge-foot, and the passengers disembark. Ascending
the stone stairs to the street, a short walk through the village brings
us to the top of the far-famed hill, from whence there is a sudden sight
of one of the loveliest views in the world. Here, unless an overflowing
purse can command the preference of the “Star and Garter,” we enter the
pleasant and comfortable “Roebuck” inn, which has nothing to recommend
it but civil treatment and domestic conveniences. The westward room on
the second floor is quiet, and one of the pleasantest in the house. The
walls of this peaceful apartment have no ornament, unless so can be
called a mezzotinto engraving by Watson, after Reynolds, of Jeffery,
lord Amherst, in armour, with a countenance remarkably similar to the
rev. Rowland Hill’s in his younger days. The advantage of this room is
the delightful view from its windows. Hither come ye whose hearts are
saddened, or whose nerves are shattered by the strife of life, or the
disturbances of the world; inhale the pure air, and gaze awhile on a
prospect more redolent of beauty than Claude or Poussin ever painted or
saw. Whatever there be of soothing charm in scenery, is here exuberant.
Description must not be attempted, for poets have made it their theme
and failed.
To the over-wearied inhabitants of the metropolis, the trip to Richmond
is covetable. The lively French, the philosophic German, the elegant
Italian, the lofty Spaniard, and the Cossack of the Don, pronounce the
prospect from the hill the most enchanting in Europe. There was no
itinerary of Richmond until Dr. John Evans, during a visit in 1824,
hastily threw some memoranda into a neat little volume, illustrated by a
few etchings, under the title of “Richmond and its Vicinity,” which he
purposes to improve.
* * * * *
In honour of the female character, and in illustration of the first of
May, should be added, that upon the coin of Dort, or Dordrecht, in
Holland, is a cow, under which is sitting a milk-maid. The same
representation is in relievo on the pyramid of an elegant fountain in
that beautiful town. Its origin is from the following historical
fact:--When the United Provinces were struggling for their liberty two
beautiful daughters of a rich farmer, on their way to the town, with
_milk_, observed, not far from their path, several Spanish soldiers
concealed behind some hedges. The patriotic maidens pretending not to
have seen any thing, pursued their journey, and as soon as they arrived
in the city, insisted upon an admission to the burgo-master, who had not
yet left his bed; they were admitted, and related what they had
discovered. He assembled the council, measures were immediately taken,
the sluices were opened, and a number of the enemy lost their lives in
the water. The magistrates in a body honoured the farmer with a visit,
where they thanked his daughters for the act of patriotism, which saved
the town; they afterwards indemnified him fully for the loss he
sustained from the inundation; and the most distinguished young
citizens, vied with each other, who should be honoured with the hands of
those virtuous _milk-maids_.
It should also be noticed, in connection with Mr. Montgomery’s volume in
behalf of the chimney-sweepers, that a Mr. J. C. Hudson has addressed “A
Letter to the Mistresses of Families, on the Cruelty of employing
Children in the odious, dangerous, and often fatal Task of sweeping
Chimnies.” To Mr. Hudson’s pamphlet, which is published at sixpence,
there are two cuts, from designs by Mr. George Cruikshank.
* * * * *
It is observed by Dr. Forster, in the “Perennial Calendar,” that “the
melody of birds is perhaps at no time of the year greater and more
constant than it is at this present period. The nightingale, the
minstrel of the eve; and the lark, the herald of the morn; together with
the numerous birds whose music fills the groves all day, contribute, in
no small degree, to the pleasure derived from the country in this month.
Nor is the lowing of distant cattle in the evening, the hooting of the
owl, and many other rustic sounds, deficient in power to please by
association of ideas. Shakspeare has a beautiful comparison of the lark
and nightingale in ‘Romeo and Juliet:’--
SCENE. _Juliet’s_ Chamber.
_Jul._ Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the Nightingale.
_Rom._ It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
_Jul._ Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torchbearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.
_Rom._ Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say, yon grey is not the morning’s eye;
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow:
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go.”