one seemed inclined to continue the debate, till a young man, evidently a stranger, rose. He had taken thought of his first two or three sentences, and delivered them glibly; then he grew confused, stammered, stopped, cleared his throat, took a gulp out of his glass-not an idea, not a word would come to him in his need. He had lost the thread of his discourse beyond hope of recovery, and so sat down. This is the common fate of young speakers. There is nothing so difficult at first as to keep up a flow of continuous thought, and see not only to the end of one sentence, but the beginning of the next; the inspiration of the moment is to be distrusted.

After this, the debate was carried on with warmth and spirit. On this and other evenings-for I repeated my visit-I found that all the different types of oratory were fully exemplified in this free-and-easy forum. There was the 'indignation' speaker who struck his clenched fist on the table, making all the glasses jingle, and bellowed, and was always prepared at a moment's notice to denounce the unspeakable baseness and unfathomable villainy of the man who held opinions the least shade different from his own. There was the historical speaker, who began at the beginning of the subject, like the gentleman who commenced the history of Little Pedlington with the doings of Adam and Eve in Eden, and who begged leave to go back a century or two to illustrate a singular feature in the history of party, as, for instance, that the crownprince had nearly always been on the side of the Whigs. There was the comic man, who aggravated the company with the most atrocious puns, declaring that whatever might be their principles, they were all devoted to the same great party-Number One ('Oh!' 'Shame!'); and that it was only wasteful and ridiculous excess in the case of the hair (heir) apparent to resort to wigs ('Order!' Turn him out!'). There was the satirical speaker, who thought the honourable gentleman who had just sat down must in early life have had a difference with the parts of speech, which he had never been able to make up again, for his grammar was as false as his logic, and his hs as misplaced as his facts. There was the wordy speaker, whose sentences had a false ring of sense, but when analysed, proved wanting even in the shadow of an idea. In short, there were speakers of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent, and of all classes. There were aspiring shopmen, who would one day, no doubt, make the vestry ring with their sonorous declamation; lawyers' clerks, keen, flippant, and dogmatic; a sprinkling of newspaper men; and an occasional barrister, on a short allowance of 'soup' at Sessions, and eager to relieve the enforced idleness of his restless tongue. It was amusing to observe how the speakers aped the etiquette of the senate. The attorney's clerk was styled the 'honourable and learned gentleman;' the tradesman was spoken of as the 'representative of the mercantile interest;' and a full private in the King's Cross Fencibles rejoiced in the title of my honourable and gallant friend.'

The bulk of the company, of course, were merely listeners. Many of them were regular attendants. They came there every Saturday night, and made up their mind on the questions of the week from the discussions they had heard. The manner in which the various views of an exciting topic were received was a capital index to the current public opinion. It has been said that cabinet ministers might often save themselves from a fatal blunder if they would only ride about in omnibuses and penny steam-boats now and then, and listen to the casual talk of their fellowpassengers. To that excellent advice let me add a recommendation to spend an occasional hour at one of the free-and-easy parliaments of the metropolis. If the speaking at these places does not influence, it clearly reflects the mood of the multitude.

I don't know whether any of my readers were in court that day I made my great speech in the case of

Grimshaw v. Bagshaw. It was by practice among the Social Ciceronians that I strengthened my pinions for that flight of oratory. Perhaps the hint may be useful to some other modest, "tongue-tied young gentleman of the Inns of Court.

THE ROBBERY AT RICHFIELD. BEFORE Mr Kraft got into the morning up-train at Richfield, he had heard of the robbery at his neighbours, Mr Goodman's. Mr Goodman's servant had told John, and John had told his master when he came in to clear the breakfast-things away. So when Mr Kraft got into the morning train, he knew that the thieves had made an entrance by the library window, which opened on the lawn, had thence found their way into Mrs Goodman's dressing-room, and taken some jewels, which were valued at five hundred pounds, leaving no marks or implements behind them by which they could be discovered.

Mr Kraft did not know his neighbours, not at least to speak to, but he had several times passed them on the road, and they had sat in the pew next his at church for the three previous Sundays; indeed, on one occasion he had lent them a hymn-book. But Mrs Kraft and he had not called, for the Goodmans had taken the house furnished for the summer alone, and seemed a quiet sort of couple, who did not care much for the society of Richfield. John told his master that they lived very comfortably, but always dined at one o'clock, and expected the household to become settled for the night by ten at least; hence the thieves had plenty of time for their purpose.

But when Mr Kraft saw Mr Goodman get into the same carriage with himself at the station, he could not resist offering his condolences.

'Yes, sir,' replied his neighbour, 'it is too true. Mrs Goodman and myself retired to rest at our usual early hour, and I saw the house properly secured, with my own eyes, when I went to bed; but the rogues were too clever for us. We did not hear a sound. I did not expect such treatment in your quiet little place, when I took the Cedars for the summer.'

'What steps do you propose to adopt?' said Mr Kraft. I suppose you will communicate with the London police?'

'Not at present,' he replied. The local authorities are already on the alert; but I am going to employ an unofficial detective, who has been very successful on several occasions, not only in discovering the offenders, but in causing the restitution of the property. You see,' he continued, nothing can be better organised than our police, but they naturally have so great a wish to bring the rogue to justice, that the majesty of the law is often more consulted than the pocket of the loser. An unofficial detective, on the other hand, consults the interests of his employer alone, and if he gets scent of the robber, is frequently able to make him disgorge, when the officer of justice would have missed the gains of the thief rather than the thief himself. His object is first to convict the offender, then, if possible, to recover the property which has been stolen.'

'True,' said Mr Kraft, I see. The detective comes to the housebreaker, and says: "I know what you have done. I have evidence which would insure your conviction. Make restitution. I am not compelled to arrest you."

'Exactly so,' replied Mr Goodman; I am now going up to town to see this Mr Dogwell, who has already proved useful to a friend of mine who was unfortunate enough to be robbed, as I was last night.'

And Mr Kraft went to his office, thinking much of the wisdom of Mr Goodman's procedure.

'What difficult questions arise,' he reflected, in the administration of justice. How impossible, for instance, it must be for an officer to forego the credit of convicting a criminal against whom he holds

sufficient evidence; and yet, how provoking it would be for me, if robbed, to lose my property, when a little quiet pressure would have made the thief disgorge it. Would he not be, in truth, as severely punished by a compulsory restitution as by a judicial, but barren revenge? I wonder whether Mr Goodman will get the jewels back before the authorities catch the robber, and make him reckless and conservative.' The wonder of Mr Kraft was satisfied, when about three days afterwards he met Mr Goodman.

'Here,' said that gentleman, opening a case which he had in his hand, and shewing some jewellery, 'here is the property which I lost. Dogwell soon struck the scent, and followed it so closely up that the thief made restitution this very morning. I hear, too,' he added, that, suspecting the vengeance of the regular authorities, he has left the country. Thus, you see, I have recovered my property, and the rogue is transported. And all has been done for a ten-pound note."

Mr Goodman was so pleasant and neighbourly, that Mr and Mrs Kraft called the next day, and left their cards.

The visit was returned in due time, and grew into an invitation to dinner on the part of the Krafts, which their new friends accepted.

'How do you think,' said the host, as they sat over their wine, the robbers who broke into your house got the information which tempted them to the burglary? Did Dogwell find that out?'

'Not exactly,' he replied; but I have every reason to believe that a man who called for the ostensible purpose of mending crockery, reconnoitred the place. He found his way into the garden, pretending that he was looking for the kitchen-door. I saw him myself, and ordered him out.'

'Bless my heart!' said Mr Kraft, there was a knife-grinder here to-day, who came up to the breakfast-room window while I was sitting close by it. He was very civil, and begged pardon for the intrusion, saying that he could not make any of the servants hear.'

'One of a gang, I have no doubt,' said Mr Goodman. Should you know him again?'

'Yes,' said Mr Kraft slowly. He had on a fur-cap, and a loose spotted neckcloth, and there were a number of mother-o'-pearl buttons on his waistcoat-a double row-I remember that distinctly; and he had a dog with one eye.'

'Upon my word,' said Mr Goodman, 'you marked him well. Did you give him a job?'

'Yes; he ground Mrs Kraft's garden-scissors, and brought them to me as I was snipping some dead roses off a bush. I remember he looked about him very much; indeed, he remarked that he didn't know how he had ever seen a more beautifuller 'ouse, axing your reverence's pardon for being so bold." I should certainly know him again, the rascal!'

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as

'Ah,' said his friend, he shewed himself too much to come again; but he took the measure of your place, I'll be bound. What means, now, do you adopt for protecting your shutters?'

Oh, nothing but your common bolts. I tried bells once, but the wind or the cat rang them, and they frightened us out of our wits so I have had them put away in the lumber-room.'

In about a week, Mr Kraft found among his morning packet of letters one rudely directed, and sealed either with a thimble or a very rough thumb. was as follows: if i was yew Ide keeper Sharp Luke hout on tewsde nite from A wel whisher.'

It

After breakfast, he trotted off to Mr Goodman's, to shew him the note, and take his counsel as an experienced thwarter of thieves. They examined the envelope and the writing, but beyond the fact that it was posted somewhere in the district S. W., they found no more clue to the writer in half an hour than they did in five minutes. So there was nothing to

be done but keep a sharp look-out on 'tewsde nite.' They consulted the almanac, and found that it would then be dark. 'On the whole,' said Mr Kraft, I think I shall have Dogwell down to look at the place.'

6

Hardly necessary,' replied his friend. You have only to sit up, or even to have lights burning in two or three of the rooms, and then the thieves will keep off, if there are any-which I doubt.'

But Mr Kraft set his heart on Dogwell, and so did Mrs Kraft, and that settled the matter. Dogwell, whose address was furnished by Mr Goodman, came and examined the weak points of the house, advised Mr Kraft about a fresh arrangement of his valuables and made a most excellent luncheon.

He said he would watch the place if Mr Kraft liked, but that really there was nothing to be alarmed at -no thieves would break into premises where the inmates were evidently on the alert.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday came and passed away without any sign. Till then, however, Mr Kraft never knew the customary noises of the night. He had had no notion of the restlessness of horses in the stable, and of the horribly sudden knocks and rattling which came from it. The very sparrows who turned in their beds when he peered out of the dining-room window into the contiguous shrubs with a candle, made him jump. Distant dogs, too, answered each other, like shepherds in an eclogue, hour after hour; and in the gray of the first morning that he watched, such a universal twitter arose on all sides, that he thought the birds had gone mad. But nothing came of it all. The only capture he made was a bad cold.

The summer passed away, and Mr Goodman's tenure of the Cedars along with it. They were now great friends, the two families, and still occupied neighbouring pews at the church, Sunday after Sunday. They arranged, therefore, two parting entertainments. The Krafts were to dine with the Goodmans on Tuesday, the Goodmans with the Krafts on Thursday. On Saturday, Mr Goodman was to leave Richfield. There had been a little pleasantry between the two Paterfamiliases about the alarm concerning thieves which had disturbed the Krafts for some fortnight in the early part of the summer; but the matter had passed now; indeed, had not been mentioned for a long time, till the first parting dinner, when Mr Goodman reminded his host that it was 'tewsde nite.' 'Ah, yes,' said the other, a little ashamed of his appre hensions to be sure. I believe it was nothing but a hoax.'

But that very week Mr Kraft's house was robbed. On Thursday evening, he had locked everything up, and slept famously till half-past six o'clock the next morning; then he was wakened by the knocking of the maid at the bedroom door, not the tentative equivocal knocking which accompanies hot water, but nervous repeated blows, given apparently with the handle of a broom-a knocking which went on without waiting for an answer, till Mr Kraft flung the door wide open, and was met by

'Robbers, sir!-they've broken into the house, and carried everything off. They have taken your' 'Clothes?' said Mr Kraft.

O no, sir-much worse than that. They have taken all the things out of the library.'

As this must have comprised a whole printed page in an auctioneer's catalogue, Mr Kraft felt that though something was wrong, allowance must be made for Betty's looseness of language; so he dressed, or rather wrapped himself up, and went down stairs. It was too true. The thieves had visited him at last, and carried off valuable booty. Having received a heavy payment the previous day, he had locked it up in his desk—an unusual thing with him, as he almost always paid large sums into a bank-and now the desk was rifled. He was afraid to think of the amount of his

So Mr Kraft, with many thanks, saw him depart, full of reiterated advice to keep the police up to the mark meanwhile; and he prepared to offer a large reward for the conviction of the robbers. Presently, he saw the inspector, who had already arrived, and added in his interview that Mr Goodman was assisting him by a communication with a private detective at the same time.

'I should not wonder if he were to throw some light on the case,' said Mr Stock, the inspector. We shall be very happy to put ourselves in communication with him; these men often get behind the scenes, while we remain outside.' So saying, he looked at his watch, partly out of a habit he had, just as if it were a prisoner in a cell, which indeed it was.

Mr Stock looked at his watch, and then returned to the trail of the thieves. This was tolerably distinct in the garden; they had crossed a soft, newlydug bed in the dark, and left the marks of their feet there very plainly. The next post brought a line from Mr Goodman, saying that he had not succeeded in finding Dogwell at his usual address, but that he should be sure to see him in the afternoon, and bring him down with him that night. Kraft told Stock this, who looked at his watch again, and went out. In a few hours, the house had apparently exhausted all its information, and the inspector went away, leaving only one constable, who steadily blocked all the little boys who bowled themselves at Mr Kraft's gate like a wicket.

Mr

Mr Kraft walked out into his garden, and conversed with the constable, the little boys in the meanwhile taking advantage of the partial engagement of the constable's attention, and coming dangerously close to the gate.

'Do you think, policeman, that the inspector has any clue to the thieves?'

'Don't know, sir.-Keep back, you there' (with a motion of unbuckling his belt.) 'Don't know, sir.' 'Didn't he tell you when he left?' 'No, sir.'

'Do you know where he has gone?'

'No, sir.' (Another menace at the boys). 'No, sir.' So Mr Kraft gave the constable up, and tried to read the newspaper. He did not half like the inspector going off without saying a word to him; indeed, what with the negative stupidity of the policeman on guard, and the reserve of his superior, Mr Kraft felt rather helpless in their hands. The inspector had asked all manner of questions, and answered none; and now, just when he ought, as it seemed, to consult with his client, he had disappeared without a word. The day seemed very long, though, according to the almanac, it was shortening fast; but Mr Kraft watched and listened with an anxiety that would have made a Russian summer tedious. The day closed, but no sign or message came from the inspector.

Mr Kraft passed from impatience to irritation. He was quite sharp with his wife when she told him dinner was ready; and he could eat nothing. Plague

6

on these inspectors!' said he; 'I wish I had never told them anything about it. Goodman will be back in a few minutes now, I should say, and then we will see if Dogwell can't shew more intelligence than these police. I wish he was come.'

Just then, there was a ring at the door. "The inspector, sir, wishes to see you.' Mr Kraft went out.

'Sir,' said Mr Stock, looking at his watch, we have succeeded in recovering the property, and have also apprehended the thief.'

Ah!' cried Mr Kraft, 'where is he?'

In custody, sir; but I don't think we should have found him unless we had happened to meet Mr Goodman, who set us on the right track at once, and saved us a deal of trouble.'

'Bravo, Goodman!' said Mr Kraft.

'Yes, sir,' remarked Mr Stock; he is really a very clever gentleman. But I have come to say that your presence will be required to-morrow at the prisoner's examination.'

Next day, Mr Kraft went up to town betimes. By the way,' he asked of Stock, while he waited in the court, who is the prisoner?'

'George Brown, sir; that is his name. He is the leader of a gang we have been wanting for a long time -a wonderfully cunning fellow. The property was found on his person; indeed, we took him before he had time to dispose of it.'

At about half-past ten, the magistrate arrived. Mr Kraft's case came on as soon as some half-dozen nightcharges had been disposed of-dissolute penitents, with headaches and crushed hats.

'George Brown,' said some official, looking at a paper; when in a moment, introduced with silent promptitude, Mr Goodman was placed in the dock.

THROUGH my wide window streams the sun,
For lo! the morning hath begun ;
With his rays, me, prone, caressing,
Calls me to be up and dressing:
Sluggard! see how I am working,
Where the fresh night-dew is lurking,
Raising vapour for the showers;
Giving colour to the flowers;
Unfolding buds into green leaves;
Peeping under the homestead eaves;
Warming all her children callow,
That I may delight the swallow;
Calling the bees to quit their hive,
And in those golden baths to dive,
Where the dew still fills the flower,
Ere the sun asserts his power;
They, in the cold tears of the night,
Refresh their limbs for labour's flight.
Throw up the window! open wide!
Odours on air will sweetly ride.
The mavis sings from horny bill,
And sounds of day the country fill;
The handle clicks against the pail,

And milkmaids each their own kine hail.
So, forth into the morning air,

Where cheeks grow ruddy, round, and fair.
CHARLES EDE.

The Editors of Chambers's Journal have to request that all communications be addressed to 47 Paternoster Row, London, and that they further be accompanied by postagestamps, as the return of rejected Contributions cannot otherwise be guaranteed.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH Also sold by all Booksellers.

THE GREAT EXHIBITION. CHANGE in a great and populous city like London is of such daily occurrence, that the inhabitant who keeps his winter months within its boundary, and goes to look for spring buds on suburban trees, may very probably find the trees all gone, and a row of houses in their place. So rapidly has London spread, that the memory of comparatively young persons can record more great changes than took place in the long lives of their own parents. The thirty years from 1790 to 1820 produced not a tithe of the change that has been effected since then. Railways and cheap steam-boats were then unknown; omnibusriding was not invented, or the New Police; the west and east of London were little visited by their inhabitants reciprocally. It was a country walk to the Regent's Park; cows grazed in Rhodes's Farm, where the Euston Square railway terminus is now located, and it was a long and serious coach-journey to Hampstead and Highgate; a few murders have been committed in the fields midway between those places and the New Road not twenty years since, so lonely and dangerous was a locality now paved and lighted, with shops established, as if they had been there nearly a century.

On all sides, London stretches out its streets, and the end none can foretell. To the east, they go far into Essex; to the west, they connect themselves with Brentford; while to the south, Camberwell and Peckham, as well as villages once considered in the far-distant country, are tacked on to the never-ending streets; but in no suburban district have the changes been more complete and more recent than in that where the International Exhibition rears its head, surrounded by palatial edifices in extraordinary contrast with the cabbages, to which the ground was so lately devoted.

At the commencement of the present century, Knightsbridge could hardly be said to be joined to London; the houses in Grosvenor Place looked upon an open field at the back, with nothing to interrupt the prospect but the backs of other houses in far-off Sloane Street. Through the marshy, useless land between, trickled the West Brook, or West Bourne, one of the small streams which flowed from the Hampstead district, making its way to the Serpentine in

near the Albert Gate, a bridge was thrown over it, giving the name of Knightsbridge to the district, though why it received the name is not clear, inasmuch as Kingsbridge was its old name, according to good Mr Davis, whose Memorials of Knightsbridge are pleasant reading for topographers. After crossing the road, it reassumed its brooky character, meandering through open fields until it reached the Thames by a double mouth, one at the Grosvenor Canal, the other close to the grounds of Chelsea Hospital; the canal occupies the place of one, the great Ranelagh sewer represents the other-that is to say, as well as a common sewer can represent a pleasant brook.

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All the district toward the Thames through which the brook passed was dismal and disreputable. The Five Fields, as the waste ground was called where Belgravia now asserts a fashionable dignity, was the haunt of footpads, and the rotten, lonely cottages the abodes of those who avoided the proximity of old Father Antic, the Law.' A footpath led from the bottom of Grosvenor Place to Sloane Square, but nobody trusted it after dark. Further on, damp market-gardens occupied the land from Toothill Fields to Chelsea, through which passed a lonely embanked causeway, known as 'The Willow Walk,' leading to a ruined house reported to be haunted; to an equally dreary house of entertainment, called 'The Monster,' near which was located, in gloomy dignity, one William Aberfield, who was ultimately hung for coining. This worthy was known among his friends as 'Slender Billy;' and he had the power of drawing to this den peers of the realm, to witness dog-fights and rathunts, then in popular favour.

The innkeepers of Knightsbridge had by no means a good reputation in the olden time. They knew and winked at robberies, considering highwaymen as gentlemanly heroes, who honoured their inns by making them houses of call. Sir Henry Knyvett once fought for his life on the bridge itself. We read of one killed by thieves there in 1687; and as late as 1715, Lady Cowper notes with delight in her diary that she could get safely from Kensington to London, a camp being then in Hyde Park, and the roads being so secure by it.' The entire ways were in an unpaved condition, lighted along a small part with dingy oil-lamps; deep ruts and pools of mud abounded; a half-way house' took in wayfarers

in more senses than one, and Kensington was a summer visiting-place only.

Where the road forks at Sloane Street, a little triangular green still gives a suburban air to the locality, but with the characteristic love of ugliness that distinguishes parish guardians, the lilac and laburnum trees that grew there five years ago have been destroyed. From hence to Brompton Square, ten years ago, was a wide pleasant road, with long gardens in front of the houses on the south side, and enclosures with large trees on the north. Gradually the gardens have been covered by shops and warehouses, and the last of the trees cut down but a month ago, to widen the road for the traffic anticipated from the Great Exhibition. A noble acacia, the height of the house, flourished with others opposite No. 46 Brompton Row, where the comedian John Reeve died; and the last field opposite Rawstorne Street is now being covered with dwellings.

In 1844, the late T. Crofton Croker commenced a series of papers in Fraser's Magazine, entitled 'A Walk from London to Fulham,' illustrated by a series of sketches of houses and sites having historic or literary associations; and it is curious to note that scarcely twenty of these places are now in existence, so rapid and continuous have been the changes on this road.

But the greatest transformation, and the most recent, as it is the most complete, has been effected between the space from Brompton Church to the Gloucester Road, westerly; and from thence northward to the Kensington Road. In 1844, the stumps of a few old trees stood in front of the Bell and Horns Tavern, at the corner of the old Brompton Road, telling of its once rural character; opposite, and close to the church avenue, was a noble group of old trees, shading the garden entrance to Mr Pollard's school; a garden always pleasant to look upon, as it was crowded with flowers, through which the visitors went some distance to the old brick mansion. At the back, was the boys' playing-ground, bounded by the wall of Brompton Churchyard. The property being Mr Pollard's freehold, was purchased of him, in 1849, by the representatives of the confraternity known as that of the Oratory of St Philip Neri; and their church and establishment now occupy the site. The Kensington Museum adjoins this, and is constructed on part of the grounds of Brompton Park estate; the old trees remaining are samples of the greater number that once occupied the spot; the house remains also, and is converted, with others, into temporary schools of art. These houses were formerly at a considerable distance from the main road, which was narrow, bounded by the small cottages close to the Bell and Horns on the south, and the dead-wall of these gardens on the north. Long avenues between trees and shrubs led to the houses. From the cottages just named to the turn of the road opposite Cromwell Lane, there was nothing in 1844 but a hedgerow, bounding an extensive market-garden (where Thurloe Square now stands), and from Cromwell Road a pathway led towards Sydney Street, nearly crossing Onslow Square. A very old public-house, known as the 'Hoop and Toy,' stood at the corner of Alfred Place: it was a very quaint and picturesque edifice, with bow-windows, wooden front, and tiled roof, and was embowered in noble old trees, having a skittle-ground and pleasure-garden in the rear; just such a place as a London tradesman might come to for a country holiday' now and then in the days of John Gilpin. It remained, as it must have looked for a century or more, until 1843, when the whole was removed for new buildings. A winding lane led into what was then termed Brompton Vale, a collection of cottages in gardens of varied sizes, the larger number occupied by persons who lived by supplying vegetables from them to the London green-grocers. It joined Cromwell Lane near the Alms-houses (still standing), and

6

so pursued a devious course, literally 'between hedges and ditches,' entering the Kensington Road at Gore Lane, and the Gloucester Road at the southern side of St George's Terrace, from whence an uninterrupted view over garden-ground was obtained to Brompton Church, the spire peeping among trees and shrubs in a perfectly rural style. About midway in this lane, the largest and most modern-looking house was for some time the residence of G. L. Craik, Esq., a literary gentleman long associated with Mr Charles Knight in the production of his valuable works, the best known being The Pictorial History of England. Exactly opposite was Blandford Cottage, a charming cozy house in a garden abounding with flowers, and fine old mulberry trees, for which this district was famous. It was long the abode of Townsend the artist, whose happy conception of Puck,' induced the Queen to add that picture to her collection. Mr Townsend's garden came up to the extensive grounds of Gloucester Lodge, the house itself occupying the angle where the new Cromwell Road' now meets the old Gloucester Road. This house was a large and elegant mansion, with an extensive park, bounded by thick plantations, the favourite resort of song-birds Winding walks lead to pleasant summer-houses, where no reminiscence of near London lurked. It was somewhat suddenly razed to the ground in 1852, after having been untenanted for years. No representation of it exists, except a view of the garden front, engraved on steel, and used as a vignette to the titlepage of the second volume of the Autobiography of William Jerdan, so long the editor of the Literary Gazette. That gentleman speaks of the house in its palmy days, when it was the residence of George Canning, the premier of England, and resorted to by the greatest politicians and wits of that day. He records a remarkable visit he paid to the house while the unfortunate Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., was there to consult Canning as to her future course. He waited for her departure, and then walked into the reception-room, leaning on the chimney-piece till Canning returned, much excited, and at once addressed Jerdan: Take care, sir, what you do! your arm is bathing in the tears of a princess.' Jerdan adds: I immediately perceived that this was the truth, for her Royal Highness had been weeping plenteously over the very marble spot on which I rested; and it was on this day that she came to the resolution to leave England.'

Behind Mr Craik's house, stood Cromwell House, in a very large garden; the house standing on the very spot where the south-west tower of the Great Exhibition is placed, at the angle of the present Albert Road and Cromwell Road. The tradition that the house was once the residence of the Protector, whose name it bore, was not substantiated by any antique features remaining in the building. It rather appeared to have been a mansion erected about the time of William III. or Queen Anne, an opinion that might be confirmed by the quantity of Dutch-painted tiles that lined the walls of the lower rooms, after the fashion of tapestry, and which depicted huge vases filled with tulips and sunflowers, and perched on pedestals of Dutch solidity. The most interesting fact connected with this house was the temporary residence within its walls of the great orator and author, Edmund Burke; he had come here with an only son, in whom all his worldly hopes had centred, a man of talent and promise, who had reached the age of thirty-four, when consumptive symptoms appeared, which induced his father to remove him to the mild air of Brompton. The son died in Cromwell House, and the father never recovered the blow.

Close upon the grounds of Cromwell House on the north were those of Gore House, a mansion looking toward the high-road at Knightsbridge, where a high gloomy wall greatly belied the really pleasant character of the place. The garden front was cheerful, with