flow through the arteries, like myriads of red
and white billiard balls running through a
series of tubes.

This revelation of the ultimate forms of
living structure may not altogether make up
a flattering picture. Man magnified may be
less handsome than man seen by ordinary unassisted
eyesight. Skin, rough as the bark of
an old pine tree; hair, a winter osier-bed;
teeth, encrusted by earthy matter; and blood
shown sometimes gluttonously rich, and sometimes
indolently poor, make no flattering
picture for self-satisfied contemplation. But
the roughness of the skin, covered by its
myriads of perspiratory ducts, teaches the
need for careful cleanliness; the hair, tortured
by frizling-irons and mutilated by razors,
suggests a thought as to the purposes for
which portions of the frame were thus carefully
covered by the Author of all things;
teeth becoming sources of agonising pain, and
falling to decay, teach the wise necessity of
giving them proper care—both direct, by
washing, and indirect, by keeping the juices
of the mouth pure by proper food and wholesome
temperance. Blood too white or too red
warns us against gluttony on the one hand, or
indolence and innutrition on the other.

There is not one particle of the vast natural
kingdom but has its lesson, if we do but take
the trouble to read it. Surely there is an
obvious code of morals plainly indicated in
this one glimpse of Man Magnified.

         HAMPSTEAD HEATH.

HEARING and seeing all we do of London,
with its Thames water, odorous, sewerage,
precipitous wooden pavement; its Smithfield,
its Guildhall balls to Royalty, its earnest and
liberal patronage of dirt and filth,—few
strangers, whether provincial or continental,
would dream of the existence of such places
as Shooters Hill, Kew, Hendon, or Hampstead,
at but a few miles of omnibus or steamboat
distance. The fashionable lounger of
the more favoured West End has, perhaps,
as little idea of these places, except such
obscure recollections as are suggested by Lady
Lasse de Richmond's ball (to which he went
by gas-light, and returned just as the sun was
threatening to appear), or from dining once
with Sir Gore Hatton, the wealthy banker, at
Downshire Cottage, or, from some indistinct
notions about the Mansfield property, or
some article in the " Times," relative to " enclosing"
something which people in general
preferred should be left open.

Neither is this sort of ignorance to be corrected
by the ordinary channels of literature.
London is at present flooded with guidebooks;
but there is no authentic guide to
Hampstead Heath. We would therefore
supply the deficiency.

Passing up Tottenham Court Road, that
universal resort for " persons about to marry,"
and who are earnestly invited to purchase
rickety furniture and shabby glass-ware, in
order to have the pleasure of doing the
same thing about once in every five years—
we come to the Hampstead Road, a humbler
reflection of Tottenham Court Road, but still
richer in peripatetic dealers in gigantic, chalk-farm
looking oysters, early wall-flowers, and
anomalous toys and knick-knacks, " all this
lot at one penny." Nor are travelling cafés
wanting, and a fish ordinary, of hot eels,
whelks, and "winkles," is kept up at every
hour in the day, at a halfpenny per head.
The houses are gradually turning their front
gardens into shops, and the few trees that
are left—always excepting the gardens appertaining
to Mornington Crescent—seem to
hold their ground under a sadly uncertain
tenure. Those people who can remember
the New Road before it was colonised by
ladders, zinc chimney-pots, and stone shepherds,
will have a good idea of the Hampstead
Road as it was, and as it is.

The Mother Red Cap Tavern, that celebrated
station for omnibuses, forms our best
landmark. Three roads branch from it; the
centre and left of which—with the Gothic
milk-shop and its blown-glass and shell-work
museum for an apex—lead us to Hampstead.

People who are going to the Heath by the
omnibus must wait for a green conveyance,
labelled " Hampstead," which only requires
some twenty minutes' patience; people who
are going our way, will take the road to the
right of the Gothic milk-shop, and go straight
under the railway-bridge. We prefer this
way, firstly, because it is the more pleasant;
and, secondly, because we want to grumble
at one or two things by the way.

It is of no use to give directions as to the
many turnings and zig-zags leading into the
Hampstead Fields on our left. The best plan
is, to ask, and take the first way that comes.
The higher, however, we go up the Highgate
Road, the more pleasant are the ways across.
Once in the fields, Hampstead looks us boldly
in the face, at no great distance.

Sunday evenings are, perhaps, the worst
for Hampstead Fields. We do not find fault
with the many respectable working men who
come out with their families, and enjoy the
walk as heartily as it deserves; we have no
objection to the orange-boys or the ginger-beer
cart. But there are always a large stock of
the real riff-raff about, the snake-catching,
bird's-nesting community of vagabond boys,
who seem as if they idled about the streets
all the week, and came into the fields for a
change on Sunday. Besides these, a troop of
half-drunken fellows, generally accompanied
by a bull-terrier of as forbidden appearance
as themselves, run tumbling along, knocking
each other over, rolling insanely on the grass,
and shouting more insanely still. Furthermore,
on Sundays you meet more pipes than
usual.

But go on whatever day you will, these fields
are always pleasant, and become more so as