Kew, hackneyed and “cockneyfied” as it is, offers charms of its own that do not stale by custom as we approach it by the river bank; it seems to breathe a tone of soft and even melancholy tranquillity. The beautifully-designed grey bridge, with its gracefully-curved gentle ascent and descent, seems to suit the umbrageous shore on the Richmond side. It should be noted that few rivers have been so fortunate in their bridges as the silvery Thames. They are always graceful, and harmonize with the banks, particularly those of Richmond, Henley, Kew, and many more. There is a little Mall at Kew, as there is at Mortlake, formed of stunted, narrow, and old-fashioned houses. The Green at Kew, notwithstanding the tea-houses and tea-gardens and the “touting” notices at the gates, has a truly _rococo_ and rural air which it is not likely to lose. The cheerful white posts, the church perched down in the middle, the old houses round, the grim, forlorn palace and the cheerful trams, all add to the effect. There is a fine and imposing old house on the right as you face the gardens, which was no doubt one of those occupied by the young Princes during the unhappy residence of George III. Opposite is the porch and ancient dependencies of the palace, so lately tenanted by the “old Duchess of Cambridge.” The air seems thick with the memories of the terrible days when the king was seized with madness, and the London road was alive with the carriages of ministers and physicians constantly posting down. Of Richmond it is hard to tire, and it happily still retains its air of old fashion. The town itself, in spite of many changes and new shops, has an old, drowsy, and quaint air. Only a few years ago there stood close by the railway a terrace of Queen Anne houses, of the brightest, cheerfullest red and whose white doorways were miracles of elaborate carving. They are gone now. As you walk up the street it is always pleasant to think of the little bye lanes and twisting alleys that can lead you on at any moment to the spacious Richmond Green, which, as it were, accompanies the town on its way. I like to see Billett’s confection shop, where are the only true and genuine “maid of honour” cakes--excellent, special things, in their way. Billett’s shop in the early times seemed an awe-inspiring place, and a palace of dainties. There is an old-fashioned “cut” about the shop itself; and there was a pleasant quaintness in this recent protest of the proprietor, and his honest sensitiveness about his cake:--