he hands of a pilgrim from
the Holy Land; which legend is represented at length in Westminster
Abbey; Eltham, in Kent, where the king frequently passed his
Christmas; Greenwich, where Elizabeth was born; and Woodstock,
celebrated for

"the unhappy fate
Of Rosamond, who long ago
Prov'd most unfortunate."

The ancient palace of the Savoy had changed its destination as a royal
residence only in his father's time. With the single exception of
Westminster--if indeed that--the most magnificent palace which the
hand of liberality ever raised, which the finger of taste ever
embellished. Various indeed have been the changes to which it has been
doomed, and now not one stone remains on another to say that such
things have been. Now--of the thousands who traverse the spot, scarce
one, at long and far distant intervals, may glance at the dim memories
of the past, to think of the plumed knights and high-born dames who
revelled in its halls; the crowned and anointed kings who, monarch or
captive, trod its lofty chambers; the gleaming warriors who paced its
embattled courts; the gracious queen who caused its walls to echo the
sounds of joy; the subtle heads which plodded beneath its gloomy
shades; the unhappy exiles who found a refuge within its dim recesses;
or[114] the lame, the sick, the impotent, who in the midst of
suffering blessed the home that sheltered them, the hands that
ministered to their woes.

No. The majestic walls of the Savoy are in the dust, and not merely
all trace, but all idea of its radiant gardens and sunny bowers, its
sparkling fountains and verdant lawns, is lost even to the imagination
in the matter-of-fact, business-like demeanour of the myriads of
plodders who are ever traversing the dusty and bustling environs of
Waterloo-bridge. In our closets we may perchance compel the unromantic
realities of the present to yield beneath the brilliant imaginations
of the past; but on the spot itself it is impossible.

Who can stand in Wellington-street, on the verge of Waterloo-bridge,
and fancy it a princely mansion from the lofty battlements of which a
royal banner is flying, while numerous retainers keep watch below?
Probably the sounds of harp and song may be heard as lofty nobles and
courtly dames are seen to tread the verdant alleys and flower-bestrewn
paths which lead to the bright and glancing river, where a costly
barge (from which the sounds proceed) is waiting its distinguished
fre