What a difference between the Hampton Court of those and these days. In the gardens, when I first remember them, the beds were decked with the sickly Michaelmas Daisy, and the flaunting Golden Rod, which made unsightly and straggling borders—a pitiable contrast to the perfumed and variegated flora of the present day. Yet I confess to a lingering regret for the rich clusters of the Lilac, mingling with the golden drop of the Laburnum, which then showed from out the gloomy, fantastic yews, and made a charming group in early Spring. Queen Mary’s, or the Private Garden, as it used to be called, now scarcely deserves that name, when crowds of holiday folk flock to see the celebrated vine. Not very long ago, I was enquiring of a porter at the railway station if those gentry were not difficult to cope with. “Well, ma’am,” said he, in a meek voice, “last Easter Monday there were twenty thousand of them, and to be sure I was knocked down four times” (he was a man of inches too); “but I don’t suppose they did it a’ purpose.” In old days the visitors used to arrive in vans; but what we were wont to call the incursions of the Vandals bore small proportion to the numbers that now come down, like “wolves on the sheep-fold.” The gardens were indeed most lovely, particularly during the season when the Lime-trees were in blossom, and their perfume perceptible as far off as the old Clock Court. Dearly did I love to sit by my mother’s side and watch the moon rising slowly over the lofty elms in the Home Park, which skirts the gardens. How often have I sat there since, with another dear relative and inhabitant of the palace! How sweet it was to rest on the old wooden bench in the spot irreverently called “Purr Corner.” How soft was the chime of the church bells, as it came across the river from Thames Ditton, recalling Byron’s melodious lines of “Music o’er the waters.” Hampton Court, in my childish days, had its peculiar characters. There was an old Dutchman, who had come over with the Stadtholder,[15] and had long survived his royal master. He was a source of great amusement to us children, from his quaint, old-fashioned appearance, but our chief delight was to hear him speak of his wife, whom he invariably designated as his “loaf.” There were two old women, of a most shrivelled appearance, christened by my sister “Annie Winnie” and “Ailsie Gourley” (after Walter Scott), who used to sit on hassocks, with a basket between them, the while they, in lack of male gardeners, weeded the broad terrace walk. I blush to confess that my youngest brother and I found it a cherished pastime to dash headlong between these two guardians of the terrace, as in an impetuous race, upsetting the basket and scattering the contents far and wide. This proceeding entailed a severe reprimand from the poor old ladies, whose work had all to begin again, and terrible were the threats made use of on the occasion, that they would write immediately and complain of us to His Majesty.