her first in church.

Do you happen to know a quaint, dreamy old region in the west of London,
which bricks and mortar have not, as yet, overtaken, nor newfangled
villas vulgarised?

A region of innumerable market gardens that are principally laid out in
long, narrow beds, lost into nothingness as they dwindle down in the dim
vista of perspective, and which are planted with curly endive, piquante-
looking lettuces, and early cabbages; squat rows of gooseberry bushes
and currant trees, with a rose set here and there in between; and sweet-
smelling, besides, of hidden violets and honeysuckles, and the pink and
white hawthorn of the hedges in May:--

A region of country lanes, ever winding and seemingly never ending,
leading down to and past and from the whilom silent, whilom bustling
river, that never heeds their tortuous intricacies, but hurries by on
its way through the busy city towards the sea below; lanes wherein are
to be occasionally met with curious old stone houses, of almost
historical antecedents and dreamy as the region in which they lie,
scattered about in the queerest situations without plan or precedent, on
which the casual pedestrian comes when he least expects:--

Do you know this quaint old region, this fleeting oasis in the Sahara of
the building-mad suburban metropolis? I do, well; its market gardens,
its circumambient lanes, its old, antiquarian stone houses, and all!

Many a time have I wandered through them; many a time watched the heavy
waggons as they went creaking on their way to town and the great
emporium at Covent Garden, groaning beneath the wealth and weight of the
vegetable produce they carried, and laden so high with cunningly-
arranged nests of baskets on baskets, that one believed each moment that
they would topple over, and held the breath for fear of hastening their
fall; many a time sought to trace each curving lane to its probable
goal, or tried to hunt out the hidden histories which lay concealed
within the crumbling walls of the old dwellings on which I might happen
to light in my walks.

But my favourite ramble, eclipsing all others now in pleasant
recollections of by-gone days, was through the Prebend's Walk, bordered
with its noble grove of stately lime trees and oaks and elms on either
hand; and passing by open fields, that are, in spring, rich with yellow
buttercups and star-spangled daisies, and, in summer, ripe with the
aromatic odours of new-mown hay.

The Prebend'