If we may call Teddington a town, then, by comparison, Twickenham, adjoining it, is a metropolis. All this Middlesex side of the river is, in fact, spoiled, but the river itself, and the lawns and parks fringing it, are, happily, little affected, and none, wandering along the towing-paths, would suspect the existence of those great populations on the other side of quite a narrow belt of trees. The only inkling of them is when the wind sets from the streets and brings the strains of a piano-organ, the cries of the hawkers, or the squeaking of tramcar-wheels against curves, yelling like damned souls in torment. [Illustration: A BUSY DAY, MOLESEY LOCK.] The older part of Twickenham centres about the church, one of those pagan eighteenth-century boxes of red and yellow and grey brick that are so familiar along these outer fringes of London. The old church sank into ruin in 1713, but the tower of it remains. In the churchwardens’ accounts of some two hundred years ago we gain some diverting glimpses of an older Twickenham. Thus, in 1698, we find, “Item: Paid old Tomlins for fetching home the church-gates, being thrown into ye Thames in ye night by drunkards, 2_s._ 6_d._”; and “Item: To Mr. Guisbey, for curing Doll Bannister’s nose, 3_s._” The old and slummy lanes that here lead down to the waterside are bordered with houses that date back to the time of those entries. In the church is a monument to Pope, with an epitaph written by himself, “For one who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey”: the last scornful effort of his bitter spirit. The stone in the floor that marks his actual resting-place is covered over, and many therefore seek his grave in vain. I have, in fact, myself thus vainly sought it; questing in the first instance among the tombs in the churchyard, to the puzzlement of a group of working-men engaged upon a job there. “What you looking for, guv’nor?” asked one. “I want to find Pope’s grave.” “Don’t know the name,” said he. “’Ere, Bill”—raising his voice to one of his mates a little way off—“d’ye know where a bloke named Pope is berried?” O! horror. An epitaph upon Kitty Clive, the actress, who died in 1758, may be seen here, among those to other notabilities. From the crowded streets of Twickenham let us escape by means of Twickenham Ferry. Crossing the river at this point, Twickenham is seen at its best; for here the gardens of the three or four great mansions that yet remain entirely mask the ravages of late years. But even so, those who have known the scene from of old cannot look upon it altogether without regrets for the noble cedars of the estate known as “Mount Lebanon,” among the very finest—perhaps _the_ very finest—in the land, wantonly cut down some few years since. [Illustration: TEDDINGTON WEIR.] CHAPTER IX PETERSHAM