"The gardens of Holland House" (says Mr. Hare) "are unlike anything else in England. Every turn is a picture.... A raised terrace, like some of those which belong to old Genoese palaces, leads from the house high amongst the branches of the trees to the end of the flower garden.... Facing a miniature Dutch garden here is "Rogers' Seat," inscribed: "Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell With me those pleasures that he sings so well." Lord Macaulay's last residence was, as I have said, "Holly Lodge." In this secluded villa, high walled-in from the outer world, were the two requisites for an author's ideal of happiness, a library and a garden. The house bears a memorial tablet. Here the great writer died while quietly seated in his library chair, his book open beside him; a peaceful close of a busy life. I have named a few of our great Londoners; yet they, indeed, are but few among the vast galaxy of the bright particular stars who, even in our day, still enlighten with their spirit their former dwellings and surroundings. It is their human interest that so transfigures London stones; it is the mighty dead of England, the "choir invisible," "of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live.... To make undying music in the world"-- that lend to their city such enchantment. Surely something of this feeling,--of this enchantment--is ours when we think of the long roll of great spirits who illumined the archives of the past. There is a magic, a glamour, in London streets, that affects the strongest heads and hearts. All honour to them--to poor human nature,--that it is so. Not only, let us hope, to the mad poet-painter Blake was it given to "meet the Apostle Paul in Piccadilly." We, too, may, if we will, walk with Milton in Cripplegate, may share Byron's Titanic gloom in the quaint Albany precincts, may wander with Charles Lamb in those Temple Gardens that he so loved, and may listen with him and Dickens to the pleasant tinkle of the rippling water in secluded Fountain Court. We inherit these associations, and we may--inestimable privilege--see our London, our "towne of townes, patrone and not compare," through the eyes of all the great men who loved her in the past. "The dull brick houses of the square, The bustle of the thoroughfare, The sounds, the sights, the crush of men, Are present, but forgotten then. "With such companions at my side I float on London's human tide; An atom on its billows thrown, But lonely never, nor alone." [Illustration: _Cricket in the Parks._] CHAPTER XVI RUS IN URBE "It is my delight to be Both in town and in countree."--_Old Couplet._ "If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall."--_Charles Morris._