After spending a delightful week in Richmond, we begin to think it is time to be “moving on.” So anxious are we to resume our journey southward, we decide to go by the evening train, but unfortunately about mid-day a thick smoke fills the air, and over-spreads the city like a funeral pall. We learn that the railway bridge is on fire, burning so furiously, and spreading so rapidly, that in the space of an incredibly short time the buildings on either side are gutted, and the wind carries the flying sparks over the city, and for a time it is in danger of total destruction; people rush out of their houses, and watch breathlessly the result; but the sparks fly over the house-tops in a flaming shower, setting fire to one roof after another; and at last, after scaring half the town, catching at the tindery thatch of the Allan House, threatening to destroy one of the chief landmarks of the ill-starred poet’s life, but the passers by rush to the rescue, and the old house is saved for the benefit of new generations of relic hunters. We fear that the destruction of the railway bridge will cause us difficulty, and detain us in Richmond to our inconvenience; but our landlord assures us we shall be able to start in the evening, as we had originally designed. “Things are sure to be fixed all right,” he says. Wonderfully expressive, and variously applied is that little word “fix,” in the idiomatic language of this “Greater Britain.” Never did so small a word mean so much! It does duty as a “word of all work,” in the kitchen, in the stable, and in the lady’s chamber; the ladies “fix” their hair, the gentlemen “fix” their whiskers, they “fix” their dinners, they “fix” their babies, they “fix” their weddings, they “fix” their funerals--in fact that little insignificant monosyllable is imported into all the articles of their daily life, and they live in a general atmosphere of “fixing.” In accordance with our host’s kind assurance, things are pleasantly “fixed” for our departure, the only inconvenience being that we have to drive across the foot-bridge (so called because it is a wide carriage drive) over the river, and take the train from Manchester on the other side. The shades of evening are fast falling round us as we drive down the narrow streets towards the river, and thence take our last view of these Richmond hills, which remind us so strongly of that other Richmond, girded by our winding river Thames. The Capitol with its silent groups of heroic dead is dimly shadowed forth in the fading light; here and there the street lamps are lit, and look like glimmering glow-worms crawling up the narrow winding ways; and from the stained glass windows of many churches the mellow light streams through, revealing a fantastic kind of mosaic in brilliant hues--blue and crimson, green and gold, blending harmoniously together; the roll of the organ, and the united voices of the singers follow us down through the hilly street until they are lost in the distance.