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I appeal to the ex-officer of the Rifles.

"You haven't sixpence about you, honoured sir?" is all the reply I can get from the subaltern with the packet of greasy letters. But yet I do see him; my retina takes the full image. By the apple of my eye, I know now that grim dark face, that heavy eye, and black wig, that strong sure walk, and that train of little waddling spaniels. He is watching the three hundred men at work, and talking with some French gardener about throwing all the ponds but Rosamond's into one strip of water, with islands for the ducks; there is to be a rising fence for deer, decoys for ducks, and broad gravel walks instead of narrow winding field-paths; Italian ice-houses, avenues of trees, and, above all, a mall. I suppose the king got his love for ducks in Holland, where he brought the use of skates from. No use now decoys for wild fowl in the Park; the wild fowl that Charles saw on their own nests are gone far from the roaring city, gone like the "fat and sweet salmons" that the historian Harison saw daily taken in the Thames-gone where the woodcocks of the West End squares are gone, and where the whitebait of Greenwich will follow, if the Thames goes on getting worse as it gets older.

St. James's Palace was once a hospital for fourteen leprous sisters, dedicated to the Spanish Saint who gave a name to so long a line of Scotch kings, the dregs of which line we had the blessings of in England till we tossed them on to a foreign dunghill, where they ceased to trouble us, death shutting them all up, the lost drunkard, and the other bigots and mauvais sujets in a certain quiet mortuary chapel of the Vatican that I have often visited with much thankfulness. Henry VIII, hateful to God and man, laid his fat hand on this charity, as the English Rehoboam did, wherever he could on church or manor-house.

The site of Buckingham Palace was once, as I have said before, a suburban mulberry garden, or Cremorne, that existed when Cromwell shut up Spring gardens and they were built upon, and before Vauxhall was opened. It was a fashionable botanical-garden sort of place, where you eat tarts, and had wine and cheesecakes. Lord Goring lived close by, at the house that the Earl of Arlington and the Duke of Buckingham successively inhabited; and there was good air there and good company, for here, at a glass-smashing banquet, Charles II. himself violated his own decree against pledging and the drinking of healths. Ever since Cromwell shut up Spring Garden, the Mulberry Garden flourished.

But of that anon. This garden originated in a planting of mulberries near Westminster Palace, by that erudite and most wise simpleton, James I.,-the man born for a village schoolmaster, or a country Shallow. It consisted of about four acres twenty-two perches of land, and stood on the north-west side of the present palace; it was intended to set an example, borrowed from some Italian traveller, of the cultivation of the Eastern tree, the poor witch-frightened pedant having some gleam of an idea that such culture would promote the manufacture

the ducks strut, the swans pout, and the cows stand so patiently to be milked; where once fat Prior and black-browed Swift walked together, to better, not the English constitution, but their own.

It is delightful even now going down the tumultuous Strand-to pace which Dr. Johnson thought the glory of existence, and the whole Duty of Man; to pass the pert statue of Charles I., with the honey. combed pedestal; and to thread through those iron Horse Guard gates, under the infallible clock; and between those mirrors of knighthood, the two horse-guards, who seem always so bran new, so veneered, so brushed, so Windsor-soaped, so killing, so fatal, if not to their enemies --who they never meet-certainly to the Carlton Terrace nurse-Lads, who regard them as demigods and Achilleses-as probably they are, f Paris were to be again troublesome. I still like to pace the hard chan walks that border the lipping water, where the yellow puffs of du šlings scull about, and where the frowning swans spread all their caLN to the blue June air-just as some chiding monitor of time-some al mechanic sexton of the day-knells for the bygone hour over West minster way, and announces, with the indifference of a herald, the coronation of a new king of sixty minutes. I like the barrack side walk, where you hear the drum noisily vibrant, reminiscent of Waterloos, or of many Vittorias. I like the open breezier palacen where the fountain sows rainbows, and the once royal home, so alle healthy, as Leigh Hunt will have it, raises its wealthy but unmeat ma bulk. I like to look at the hideous monster of Mr. John Nash, arcai tect the place that bluff old William IV. would not inhalt, all that, tinkered up from time to time, was originally nothing but cheating enlargement of the old Buckingham House, by that heart cunning fellow, George IV., who thus intended to trick Parliament building a new palace. I remember, without even the intelligent of Mr. Peter Cunningham-whom so many old writers have and 1that this was originally a house built for Dryden's Duke of Ext ingham; that it was again rebuilt and sold to George II, wh a "pouting" Absolom; that then George IV. played his tricks with. 1 and so, with some modifications and enlargements, it now stan scaring the sun and frightening the moon-a very hideous mediħ 22 of the wattled cabin of the early British chief. I like, too, the evi walks, where the little Benjamins of London play, and cry, and l.. and where seedy meditators, and out-of-doors and sometimes out-ofet philosophers think and doze, then wake, and doze, and thin k; w the thin nervous, fine-fibred grass struggles for a living, and where pampered swans steer past with their orange feet. Here, too, somet seated between an oily farmer up for the show," who rubs his re with a silk mainsail, and a gentlemanly vagabond, who tells me l been in the "Rifles," and who looks rather like a rifler-I somet. in a day-dream, find myself asking the farmer who that swarthy: in the dove-coloured velvet and cloth-of gold sword-belt is, who st just opposite, throwing showers of dry hemp-seed to the ducks. "I see now't-sartin I don't," says the farmer.

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I appeal to the ex-officer of the Rifles.

"You haven't sixpence about you, honoured sir?" is all the reply I can get from the subaltern with the packet of greasy letters. But yet I do see him; my retina takes the full image. By the apple of my eye, I know now that grim dark face, that heavy eye, and black wig, that strong sure walk, and that train of little waddling spaniels. He is watching the three hundred men at work, and talking with some French gardener about throwing all the ponds but Rosamond's into one strip of water, with islands for the ducks; there is to be a rising fence for deer, decoys for ducks, and broad gravel walks instead of narrow winding field-paths; Italian ice-houses, avenues of trees, and, above all, a mall. I suppose the king got his love for ducks in Holland, where he brought the use of skates from. No use now decoys for wild fowl in the Park; the wild fowl that Charles saw on their own nests are gone far from the roaring city, gone like the "fat and sweet salmons" that the historian Harison saw daily taken in the Thames-gone where the woodcocks of the West End squares are gone, and where the whitebait of Greenwich will follow, if the Thames goes on getting worse as it gets older.

St. James's Palace was once a hospital for fourteen leprous sisters, dedicated to the Spanish Saint who gave a name to so long a line of Scotch kings, the dregs of which line we had the blessings of in England till we tossed them on to a foreign dunghill, where they eased to trouble us, death shutting them all up, the lost drunkard, and the other bigots and mauvais sujets in a certain quiet mortuary chapel of the Vatican that I have often visited with much thankfulness. Henry VIII, hateful to God and man, laid his fat hand on this charity, as the English Rehoboam did, wherever he could on church or manor-house.

The site of Buckingham Palace was once, as I have said before, a
burban mulberry garden, or Cremorne, that existed when Cromwell
at up Spring gardens and they were built upon, and before Vauxhall
as opened. It was a fashionable botanical-garden sort of place, where
eat tarts, and had wine and cheesecakes. Lord Goring lived close
at the house that the Earl of Arlington and the Duke of Bucking-
successively inhabited; and there was good air there and good
pany, for here, at a glass-smashing banquet, Charles II. himself
ated his own decree against pledging and the drinking of healths.
ver since Cromwell shut up Spring Garden, the Mulberry Garden
urshed.
Eat of that anon. This garden originated in a planting of mul-
es near Westminster Palace, by that erudite and most wise simple-
James L.,-the man born for a village schoolmaster, or a country
low. It consisted of about four acres twenty-two perches of land,
tood on the north-west side of the present palace; it was intended
an example, borrowed from some Italian traveller, of the culti-
on of the Eastern tree, the poor witch-frightened pedant having
gleam of an idea that such culture would promote the manufacture

the ducks strut, the swans pout, and the cows stand so patiently to be milked; where once fat Prior and black-browed Swift walked together, to better, not the English constitution, but their own.

It is delightful even now going down the tumultuous Strand-to pace which Dr. Johnson thought the glory of existence, and the whole Duty of Man; to pass the pert statue of Charles I., with the honeycombed pedestal; and to thread through those iron Horse Guard gates, under the infallible clock; and between those mirrors of knighthood, the two horse-guards, who seem always so bran new, so veneered, so brushed, so Windsor-soaped, so killing, so fatal, if not to their enemies --who they never meet-certainly to the Carlton Terrace nurse-maids. who regard them as demigods and Achilleses-as probably they are, if Paris were to be again troublesome. I still like to pace the hard can walks that border the lipping water, where the yellow puffs of ducklings scull about, and where the frowning swans spread all their canvas to the blue June air-just as some chiding monitor of time-some Cal mechanic sexton of the day-knells for the bygone hour over Westminster way, and announces, with the indifference of a herald, the coronation of a new king of sixty minutes. I like the barrack sidewalk, where you hear the drum noisily vibrant, reminiscent of Waterloos, or of many Vittorias. I like the open breezier palace-24, where the fountain sows rainbows, and the once royal home, so the healthy, as Leigh Hunt will have it, raises its wealthy but unme an bulk. I like to look at the hideous monster of Mr. John Nash, ar.. tect the place that bluff old William IV. would not inhabit, 4. that, tinkered up from time to time, was originally nothing bet a cheating enlargement of the old Buckingham House, by that heartless cunning fellow, George IV., who thus intended to trick Parliament: building a new palace. I remember, without even the intelligent of Mr. Peter Cunningham-whom so many old writers have aidethat this was originally a house built for Dryden's Duke of E. A ingham; that it was again rebuilt and sold to George II., what a "pouting" Absolom; that then George IV. played his tricks with it and so, with some modifications and enlargements, it now star scaring the sun and frightening the moon-a very hideous mod.t. at 1 of the wattled cabin of the early British chief. I like, too, the **** walks, where the little Benjamins of London play, and cry, and l.E and where seedy meditators, and out-of-doors and sometimes out-ofphilosophers think and doze, then wake, and doze, and think; wi the thin nervous, fine-fibred grass struggles for a living, and Ler pampered swans steer past with their orange feet. Here, too, soLati seated between an oily farmer up for the "show," who rubs his re-i with a silk mainsail, and a gentlemanly vagabond, who tells me le.. been in the "Rifles," and who looks rather like a rifler-I sometir in a day-dream, find myself asking the farmer who that swarth y = in the dove-coloured velvet and cloth-of-gold sword belt is, who sta just opposite, throwing showers of dry hemp-seed to the ducks. "I see now't-sartin I don't," says the farmer.

I appeal to the ex-officer of the Rifles.

"You haven't sixpence about you, honoured sir?" is all the reply I can get from the subaltern with the packet of greasy letters. But yet I do see him; my retina takes the full image. By the apple of my eye, I know now that grim dark face, that heavy eye, and black wig, that strong sure walk, and that train of little waddling spaniels. He is watching the three hundred men at work, and talking with some French gardener about throwing all the ponds but Rosamond's into one strip of water, with islands for the ducks; there is to be a rising fence for deer, decoys for ducks, and broad gravel walks instead of narrow winding field-paths; Italian ice-houses, avenues of trees, and, above all, a mall. I suppose the king got his love for ducks in Holland, where he brought the use of skates from. No use now decoys for wild fowl in the Park; the wild fowl that Charles saw on their own nests are gone far from the roaring city, gone like the "fat and sweet salmons" that the historian Harison saw daily taken in the Thames-gone where the woodcocks of the West End squares are gone, and where the whitebait of Greenwich will follow, if the Thames goes on getting worse as it gets older.

St. James's Palace was once a hospital for fourteen leprous sisters, dedicated to the Spanish Saint who gave a name to so long a line of Scotch kings, the dregs of which line we had the blessings of in England till we tossed them on to a foreign dunghill, where they ceased to trouble us, death shutting them all up, the lost drunkard, and the other bigots and mauvais sujets in a certain quiet mortuary chapel of the Vatican that I have often visited with much thankfulness. Henry VIII, hateful to God and man, laid his fat hand on this charity, as the English Rehoboam did, wherever he could on church or manor-house.

The site of Buckingham Palace was once, as I have said before, a suburban mulberry garden, or Cremorne, that existed when Cromwell shut up Spring gardens and they were built upon, and before Vauxhall was opened. It was a fashionable botanical-garden sort of place, where you eat tarts, and had wine and cheesecakes. Lord Goring lived close by, at the house that the Earl of Arlington and the Duke of Buckingham successively inhabited; and there was good air there and good company, for here, at a glass-smashing banquet, Charles II. himself violated his own decree against pledging and the drinking of healths. Ever since Cromwell shut up Spring Garden, the Mulberry Garden flourished.

But of that anon. This garden originated in a planting of mulberries near Westminster Palace, by that erudite and most wise simpleton, James I.,-the man born for a village schoolmaster, or a country Shallow. It consisted of about four acres twenty-two perches of land, and stood on the north-west side of the present palace; it was intended to set an example, borrowed from some Italian traveller, of the cultivation of the Eastern tree, the poor witch-frightened pedant having some gleam of an idea that such culture would promote the manufacture

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