leading case, jocularly, and with a certain
irreverence.

All ye men of law — now wasting away
slowly over midnight studies—take this
counsel home with you, offered by one of
your own brethren. Become walking-men,
walleted, unencumbered men, for a brief
season in the year, and it will be the better
for you!

It is morning,—and the sun, with ruddy orb
ascending, does not exactly fire the horizon,
but has been grilling that boundary of vision
with a steady, remorseless purpose. It is
scarcely an encouraging walking day, but the
wandering man, while lying awake the night
previous, has formed a purpose,—that he will
go forth at early dawn and see what the face
of the land is like.

So he goes out, first, at a good round pace
to get free of the city, passing by those
early morning workers and operations—those
lusty women beating mats — those milk-
deliverers — those scrupulous artisans getting their
boots cleaned at their own doors. Such
working aspect hath every busy city at this
hour. But gradually houses begin to thin off,
and a few stunted trees and patches of grass
come into view. Under a stunted tree
the wandering man calls a halt, for the purpose
of knowing his own mind and which
road he shall follow.

A hard question to resolve, as he stands
below the stunted tree. For, like an ill-
constructed tale whose catastrophe is visible
from the very beginning, the country
stretches off far and wide, opening out
flatly, and disclosing itself with unreserved
confidence; but with scarcely a landmark
visible beyond certain faint outlines which
he knows will turn out to be windmills.
Windmills will be his portion for that day, he has
a shrewd suspicion. Suppose he go forward
in the direction of the open country, that is to
say, in no particular direction, but promiscuously?

Striking off then vigorously towards this
point, the wandering man is brought out, in the
course of time, upon a hard road. The hard
road stretches away in front like a thread—
straight as a whip—until it touches a point;
and then, by the accepted laws of perspective,
seems to go no further. The hard
road stretches away behind, like another
straight whip, and grows to a point there.
This being the prospect, the walking man
is clearly thrown in upon himself, arid, for
the readiest entertainment, is driven back
upon the hard road itself. He discovers,
with interest, that the hard road has, in a
manner a certain duality;—one portion being
heavy, out-speaking paving-stones, the other
grateful mould of Rotten Row quality,—
plenty for the behoof and hoof of equestrians
(execrable attempt this, but it forced itself
unguardedly on the wandering man as he
struggled with the monotony of the hard road.)

A clatter as of riders— some miles of the road
done by this time the—- hollow thump of heavy
steeds. Three Dutchmen, on monster dray-
horses, go by, jogging up and down ponderously,
like enough to break the back of any
horse of English quality. They must ride
fifteen stone a-piece, or thereabouts, and are
flogging their beasts over the Rotten Row
mould unmercifully. It results, at times, that
riders are huddled in suddenly on one
another, which once goes near to unhorsing
of the off equestrian. Behind whom run two
dogs of Dutch breed—the true, thickset,
double-nosed creatures, who have slipped into
our own land, and do good service for sporting
uses. They look at the wandering man
hungrily, as though they would relish a
good bite out of his calf.

More miles of the hard road. A little
break in the shape of a bridge and canal
crossing; the bridge steep as the Rialto. Then
hard road as before. But there is something
coming; so be of good heart, wandering man.
Here are trees, and a house or so, and, on
the right, a gateway.

Nothing short of a château belonging to a
person of quality. The  château has a handsome
gateway, and twisted iron gates of the
old pattern. It has abundance of trees about
it—that is to say, top-knots and bunches of
verdure fastened on little sticks. It seems to be
a good house, with plenty of sleeping
accommodation in the slates; and, yet, taking it
all in all, the wandering man—who is peering
through the twisted iron of the gates — thinks
it must be highly insalubrious, for it rises out
of ornamental water: green ornamental water
that is eminently stagnant. That fluid has been
asleep this many a day. From the iron gates
an avenue leads up, and a little bridge leads
across, and, just in front of the hall-door, the
earth slopes down to the water with a little
piece of decoration like the front of a French
pendule—two nymphs in marble (lead, perhaps,
whitened) reposing on a centre-piece.
Only the nymphs' persons, being laved
ceaselessly by stagnation, are green and smirched.
There is a decayed summer-house, or kiosk,
at one side; to which the person of quality
and friends of quality might have retired of
evenings for a quiet schnaps, only the decayed
kiosk rises out of slime also. Strange taste
this—seemingly universal—the wandering
man having noted that every residence of
pretension he drew near was given, more or
less, to this green element. No doubt it is
held to be Corinthian or aristocratic this
ornamental water; taking the place of deer-
park or other addition upon which people
near home might plume themselves. But
there were no signs of life about the person
of quality's residence: no figures walking, no
heads at the windows. Certain symptoms of
desertion, rather;—weeds, uncut grass, lack of
paint, and a broken pane here and there. More
curious still, the wandering man met many
such tenements during that day's travel; to
say nothing of other days' travel: and they