RICHMOND HILL AND POPE'S GROTTO.

My humble muse, in unambitious strains
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains:
E'en I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise.

POPE'S" WINDSOR FOREST."

ONE fine morning, I set out from London to visit Richmond Hill famed for its view, and Twickenham noted as the residence of Pope.

Hill.

Richmond is about eleven miles from London. It is a pretty, rural-looking place, and is adorned with many elegant mansions. I proceeded at once to the The prospect is really fine, and in summer must be exquisitely so; it was now autumn, and the landscape, though still retaining many of its beauties, had lost the charm of freshness. The view broke upon me on the right, just as I came to a little walk adorned with fine old trees. From this spot, I beheld below me the winding Thames, bordered with groves and meadows and pleasant glades, with white mansions here and there among the trees, and the whole prospect bounded in the distance by gentle undulating hills. It was truly a lovely picture.

I went on farther, to the park. It presents a fine sweep of ground, though the swelling surface

hides its full extent. Pleasant groves, set here and there, add greatly to its beauty, and, on the left, distant hill-tops are seen over the trees. Descending to the right, I came to the brow of the hill, when a prospect still more extensive opened upon me. Here was a seat for the accommodation of visitors, and long I sat, enjoying the scene. Looking up, I observed fastened on one of the trees a board with these lines inscribed upon it::

The living landscape spreads beneath my feet,
Calm as the sleep of infancy: the song
Of nature's vocalists- the blossomed shrubs,
The velvet verdure, and the o'ershadowing trees,
The cattle wading in the clear, smooth stream,-
And, mirrored on its surface, the deep glow
Of sunset-the white smoke-and yonder church
Half hid by the green foliage of the grove :-
These are thy charms, fair Richmond!—and through these
The river wafting many a graceful bark,

Glides gently onward, like a lovely dream,
Making the scene a paradise!"

Yes! there the "living landscape" lay before me, and charming it was. There were the smooth meadows with their "velvet verdure," and the cattle quietly grazing upon them (it was too late in the season for them to be "wading in the stream "); and there was "the river" glancing here and there from among the trees, and "gliding gently onward." Just below where I stood, I beheld a solitary stag, with his high-branching antlers; he was moving slowly along, from time to time stopping and looking round, as if in search of his companions.

After contemplating the prospect till the picture

had filled my mind, I recollected the second object of my visit; and descending the hill and crossing a pretty bridge, I stood within the boundaries of Twickenham.

Walking on through some agreeable scenery, I at length reached the village, rather a plain, ordinarylooking place, with a new brick church built against the old stone tower of the former one. I inquired for Pope's Villa: all seemed to know the place well, but I was informed that the old house was pulled down, and a new one was now building on the site. I soon reached the grounds; and entering the gate, I inquired of one of the workmen engaged on the new building, if he could direct me to "Pope's Grotto." I was pleased at finding that the place was so well known. He said it was just by, near

the bank of the river.

The idea that I was actually standing on the ground of Pope's Villa, and close by his famous Grotto, made me thrill. What a host of sensations are called up by the mention of these names, and the presence of these localities! I thought of the "Augustan Age" of Queen Anne,-of the galaxy of wits that then sparkled,-Addison, Steele, Swift: I thought of the "Essay on Man," the "Rape of the Lock," the "Dunciad;" and the "little crooked man himself came up before my view, whose genius, beneath this covering of deformity, shone forth so brilliantly as to make him the "bright particular star" and the ruling spirit of his day.

As these thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, I hastened in the direction pointed out, and soon reached the place. In a bank of some height,

fronting the river and not far removed from it, was an artificial cave, the walls, floor, and ceiling of which were all composed of sparkling stones and shells, so arranged as to represent a natural grotto. The mouth of the grotto was closed by an iron gate, so that I was unable to enter; but the whole interior could be seen through the bars of the gate, as well as through a small square window in the wall. It was divided, seemingly, into three compartments, -the centre one, with an arched roof, passing quite through the bank to a gate on the opposite side, while those on the right and left extended only part way through. At the bottom of the right compartment, there appeared some busts set in a kind of niche. The whole front of the grotto was thickly and richly covered with ivy, so as to make the light within-if not "dimly religious," at any rate, glimmeringly poetical.

As I stood looking in and striving to penetrate through the uncertain light to the farthest corners of the cave, I heard, not far from me, a sound that well accorded with the character of the place,namely, the flow of running water. Looking round, I beheld, what I had not before observed,— a pretty little fountain. It was in the form of a small marble figure, stooping and holding a pitcher, out of which the water flowed with a cool and refreshing sound into a circular basin, which was quite full of the sparkling element. The whole was exceedingly elegant. Unfortunately, the little man's hand was now broken off, whether by a blow from some Vandal visitor or by a stroke from old Time's scythe I could not tell-but, wonderful to relate,

the image still held on manfully by the wrist, supporting his pitcher as firmly as ever.

But what particularly charmed me-directly over the fountain was a small rose-bush, and, though it was now late in October, there was a rose upon it in full bloom, and, by its side, one pretty daughter of a bud just ready to open-a beautiful sight. It really seemed like enchantment; for I had not seen a rose before for weeks, nor had I observed this at all as I approached, nor the flowing fountain either ; and when, on turning round, I beheld them there together, it really seemed to my fancy as if, at some magical touch, they had both sprung out of the ground to greet me.

66 "Tis," indeed, "the last rose of summer," said I aloud. But it was not quite the last, either; for, presently, on looking about, I espied another on the opposite side of the entrance to the grotto,—very similar to the former, except that it had no little one by its side-no bud. It was quite alone on its bush—and none near, to "exchange sigh for sigh," except its rival opposite. Here, truly, it might be fancied, were two fairies, guarding the entrance to Pope's classic grotto; with the little figure at the fountain, keeping them company, and making music for them with the water's melodious flow.

Just by the rose-bush, on the left of the entrance, a lion's head, with open mouth, looked out fiercely from the bank,-a strange object by the side of the gentle rose. It was of stone, and looked

ancient and weather-worn. No doubt it had often glared on Pope himself, as the poet went to take his seat on the rustic chair which stands in front