"How far does Agar Town extend? " I
asked.

"Do you see them cinder heaps out
a yonder?"

I looked down in the distance, and beheld a
lofty chain of dark mountains.

"Well," said the Dustman, "that's where
Hagar Town ends—close upon Battle Bridge.
Them heaps is made o' breeze; breeze is the
siftins of the dust what has been put there
by the conteractor's men, arter takin' away
all the wallyables as has been found."

At this point, the woman, who had been
combing her hair, arose, and the truck
resumed its perilous journey. The dustman
waited, and saw it arrive at its destination, in
safety; whereupon the dustman having smoked
his pipe, departed. As I had, by this time,
given up all intention of seeking a residence in
that neighbourhood, I continued my researches,
like Dr. Syntax, simply in search of the
picturesque.

Crossing another bridge—for the canal takes
a winding course through the midst of this
Eden—I stood beside the Good Samaritan
public-house, to observe the houses which the
dustman had pointed out, with the water "a
flowin' in at the back doors." Along the
canal side, the huts of the settlers, of many
shapes and sizes, were closely ranged. Every
tenant, having, as I was informed, his own
lease of the ground, appeared to have
disdained to imitate his neighbour, and to have
constructed his abode according to his own
ideas of beauty or convenience. There were
the dog kennel, the cow-shed, the shanty, and
the elongated watch-box styles, of architecture.
To another, the ingenious residence of
Robinson Crusoe seemed to have given his
idea. Through an opening was to be seen
another layer of dwellings, at the back: one,
looking like a dismantled windmill; and
another, perched upon a wall, like a guard's
look-out on the top of a railway carriage. The
love of variety was, everywhere, carried to the
utmost pitch of extravagance. Every garden
had its nuisance—so far the inhabitants were
agreed—but, every nuisance was of a distinct
and peculiar character. In the one, was a
dung-heap; in the next, a cinder-heap; in a
third, which belonged to the cottage of a
costermonger, were a pile of whelk and
periwinkle shells, some rotten cabbages, and a
donkey; and the garden of another,
exhibiting a board inscribed with the words
"Ladies' School," had become a pond of thick
green water, which was carefully dammed up,
and prevented from flowing over upon the
canal towing-path, by a brick parapet.

I remember to have seen, in a book written
some time since, a chapter dervoted to the
beau idéal of an English villa and estate. The
village church was, at that period, considered
of some importance, and an approach thereto
by a good road was treated as an element in
securing the comfort and well-being of the
villagers. I looked for the "heaven-directing
spire," and thought of the bogs, sloughs, and
quagmires that must; necessarily, be struggled
through by a pious parishioner; and I
wondered whether it was possible for any amount
of courage and patience to prevail over the
difficulties. The English Captain, who
attended church at San Francisco, in fisherman's
mud-jacks, with trowsers close reefed up
each leg, felt all his misgivings at his grotesque
appearance vanish when he saw other men
dressed like himself, and observed that the
prevailing costume for ladies was Wellington
boots; but, I should like to know what
sympathy an inhabitant of Agar Town would
get, if, on a Sunday morning, he presented
himself before the parish beadle thus attired!
The Rector of St. Pancras has endeavoured
to meet his parishioners in this district, half-
way; for, finding the difficulty of moving
Agar Town to church, he moved the church
to Agar Town; and a neat little structure, or
temporary church, is now conveniently planted
in the dirtiest part of the district.

The inhabitants themselves exhibit a
genuine Irish apathy. Here and there, a
barrow or two of oyster shells, broken bricks,
and other dry materials, have been thrown
into the mud. In Cambridge Row, I
observed that some effort had been made to
get a crossing; but, a sign-board indicated
that it was to facilitate the approach to "The
back door of the Good Samaritan."

Continuing my way until I came within the
shadow of the great cinder-heaps of Mr. Darke,
the contractor, I turned off at Cambridge
Crescent, to make the hazardous attempt of
discovering a passage back into the Pancras
Road. At the corner of Cambridge Crescent
are the Talbot Arms Tea Gardens, boasting
a dry skittle-ground, which, if it be not an
empty boast, must be an Agar Town island.
The settlers of Cambridge Crescent are almost
all shopkeepers—the poorest exhibiting in
their rag-patched windows a few apples and
red-herrings, with the rhyming announcement,
"Table-beer, Sold here." I suspect a system of
barter prevails—the articles sold there
comprehending, no doubt, the whole of the simple
wants of the inhabitants; a system, perhaps,
suggested by the difficulty of communication
with the civilised world.

A stranger in these parts immediately
attracts the attention of the neighbourhood;
and if he be not recognised for an Agarite, is
at once set down for a "special commissioner,"
about to report to some newspaper upon the
condition of the inhabitants. I met no one
having the air of a stranger, except an unlucky
gentleman, attempting to make a short cut to
the London and York Railway station; and
a postman, vainly inquiring for Aurora
Cottage. There were Bath, and Gloucester,
Roscommon, Tralee, and Shamrock Cottages; but
Aurora Cottage, being probably in some
adjoining street, was entirely unknown to the
mud-bound inhabitants. The economy of
space which I had observed from the bridge,