insignia, to its final resting place in St. Paul's Cathedral. From the Admiralty to St. Paul's, the streets were all lined with the military. The procession was headed by detachments of the Dragoon Guards, the Scots Greys, and the Ninety-second Highlanders, with the Duke of York and his staff, the band playing that sublime funeral strain, the "Dead March in Saul." Then followed the pensioners of Greenwich Hospital, and the seamen of Lord Nelson's ship the Victory, a deputation from the Common Council of London, and a long train of mourning coaches, including those of the royal family, the chief officers of state, and all the principal nobility of the kingdom. When the coffin, covered with the flag of the Victory, was about to be lowered into the grave, an affecting incident occurred: the attendant sailors who had borne the pall, rushed forward, and seizing upon the flag, before a voice could be raised to prevent them, rent it into shreds, in the intensity of their feelings, that each might preserve a shred as a memento of the departed.

Greenwich Hospital now lodges about three thousand old and disabled seamen, to attend upon whom are upwards of a hundred nurses, widows of seamen. Each pensioner, besides a

liberal allowance of clothes and provisions, receives a small weekly sum for tobacco and other indulgences to which he has been accustomed; the sailors one shilling, the mates one shilling and sixpence, and the boatswains two shillings and sixpence. A library is also provided for their exclusive use. It is a pleasing sight to see

them sitting in the sunshine in the porches of their palace, or swarming about in the green alleys of the Park, with their old-fashioned cocked hats and coats; some feeding the deer, some lying at full length upon the sward, others turning over under the trees the smoke-coloured leaves of some well-fingered manual, and others

again, standing upon Flamstead Hill, with telescope to their eye, watching the arrival or departure of some vessel, with her white sails spread, careering swiftly through the waters of the Thames, and soliciting the loiterer, for a penny fee, to do likewise. The view from this hill is most agreeable and noble. Right underneath lie the glades of the Park, and the twin domes of the Hospital, and the eye, taking a wide range, roams to the right and left, over the busy bosom of the river, covered with ships, and boats, and steam vessels, bearing wealth and passengers to and from the great heart of England. The latter itself is dimly visible to the west, crowned with a corona of perpetual smoke, from which the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral emerges grand and imposing, its gilded ball glittering in the sunshine, while all below is dim and cloudy. Every variety of view afforded by a flat country may be seen from this hill; the busy town, the busy water, the retired woodland, and the fine open country, dotted with herds of cattle, and enlivened with clumps of trees, from which village churches peep modestly forth, farm-houses, villas, and fields of waving grain.

Of the patron saint of Greenwich, to whom in former days its church was dedicated, and

which still bears his name, an old legend is related, which we, as avowed lovers of traditions, must not fail to record. St. Alphege was Archbishop of Canterbury at the commencement of the eleventh century, and Greenwich having been occupied by the Danes in one of their predatory incursions in the year 1011, a detachment was sent from thence to Canterbury, who brought back the archbishop with them to Greenwich, where he was detained a captive for seven months. While mourning in his cell, the monkish legends say he was visited by the devil, who appeared to him in the likeness of an angel, and tempted him to follow into a dark valley. St. Alphege, deceived by the false glitter of the celestial glory which the arch enemy had assumed, followed him wearily over rugged stones that cut his naked feet, through stinging underwoods, and sharp brambles that tore his flesh, until they arrived at a deep mire, into which the devil soused him, and vanished in his real shape with an insulting laugh of triumph. A real angel immediately afterwards appeared, who assisted him out, and told him to go back to prison, and suffer martyrdom for the glory of the Lord, which had been decreed his high privilege in this world. The saint did as he

was bidden; and shortly afterwards his captors, being enraged because his friends could not pay the exorbitant ransom which they demanded, set upon him and cruelly murdered him. His body after death worked miracles: a rotten stake that was driven through it, flourished and bore leaves and blossoms, by which many of his murderers were converted. The citizens of London hearing of the event, purchased the body, and removed it from Greenwich to St. Paul's Church, where they buried it with great magnificence. It was eleven years afterwards removed to Canterbury by order of King Canute. The present parish church of Greenwich is supposed to have been erected on the very spot where the murder was committed.

Twice in every year Greenwich becomes the grand resort of the populace of London-first at Easter, and afterwards at Whitsuntide. What man, woman, or child residing within a circuit of twenty miles of Greenwich, and belonging to those classes of society who do not think it derogatory to enjoy themselves at a fair, that has not at one time or other been present at the celebrated Saturnalia? Greenwich is then in all its glory, and becomes, as Chaucer characterized it four hundred years ago,

Grenwiche that many a shewe is in,