hear call me "Father!" They are present with me still, now that I am describing them, two hours after

they are gone.

"After dinner sit awhile," advises the sensible old proverb. We did so, and found ourselves none the worse for following its advice: some people do, for they get drowsy in their chair-a bad sign, and "drop off to sleep," as they express it, and sometimes never wake again-a worse sign than the other of the perniciousness of this after-dinner, full-blooded slumbering. Children are all the more sprightly for their meals, and ten minutes after dinner will turn the house out of windows, if you will allow them or commission them to do so. Full-grown children, if good boys and girls, should be just as much alive, and full of their fun, after their dinners: but the worst of these spoiled children is that they eat more than they want -fill their eyes instead of their bellies-regulate their appetites by the pound avoirdupoise, and are not content and satisfied till the scale goes down thumping on the counter with rather too honest a lumping weight and measure. And thus they grow plethoric and stupid, and lie senseless and inactive in their styes, though they are not so rated in the parishbooks. We-being moderately given-felt no drowsiness: even three-fourths of a quart of honest good ale did not set our head humming like a top asleep : quite the contrary: we were all alive and leaping our few faculties, at least, were-and so we superadded to the " After dinner sit awile" an invention of our own-" After dinner scribble awhile"-by way of dessert, which made our sitting still and quiet not unpleasant. That done, and having looked over what we had written, and having dotted the egotistic vowel (which letter is that?) where we had missed so doing in "the enthusiasm of the moment," and having given a dash to a double tt, and stuck in a comma here and there, to measure the sense, and mark the construction, and not confound and confuse both, we rolled up our work as neatly as a sempstress-put it by-rang the bell-brought in the maid, who brought H*

in the bill, gave it a first, second, and third reading, passed it without a dissentient voice, and then counting the House out, adjourned. The King's Head seemed perfectly satisfied, and, we thought, smiled on us as we took our leave; and so he ought, for we had shewn our attachment to the constitution and our loyalty at one and the same time.

Off we went again, at a brisk pace, not caring for the heat—not caring, indeed, for anything. Not far from our inn, a pleasant-looking lane opened its mouth and asked us to walk in. It was a lane which some proud persons would avoid as much as they would "plague, pestilence, and famine:" more humble men would modestly walk up it, and see no harm in it-nothing which could disgrace them in being seen to visit there. It is time that I mentioned its expressive name: did plain John Bunyan christen it, or what man with a like homely mind? It is, then, called (for I see you are curious to know its name) -Obligation Lane!-why so named, and with what unrevealed signification, I know not. It was a pleasant place, and so I was not curious to know more. On the left was a little cottage, new, but built in bad imitation of an old cottage; but its situation was delightful, and made amends for its improper pretensions to be what it was not. It faced the glowing West, and looked up a small green field, and through trees, and over meadows, and over Wandsworth, and over the Thames, and on and on, till the Western horizon shut in the scene. "Ah!" groaned we: but we will not let the reader into the secrets of our thoughts-except these that forty pounds a year, books, friends, and a few articles of similar sorts, got somehow mixed together, and made up an agreeable miscellany enough of hopes. On the right was an old-fashioned farm-house, and, as we approached it, the farmer, we supposed - an infirm man wheeled out at its gates in an invalid's chair, attended by a servant and a young gentleman, his son, and the field-gates being thrown open before him, was soon among his labourers, getting in the hay-harvest

was

-the most fragrant labour of the farmer's year. The air was scented with it-the ground was sweet with it: health and gratification seemed to breathe in every wafture of the new-mown fragrance and every movement of the gently-agitated air. The wind seemed loth to carry its fragrant load away, and yet it would-for there is not a part of this great metropolis which is not conscious that the hay-harvest in its neighbourhood is going on the scent of it-the wind being favourable-visits it in the coolness of the evenings in June, and sets the thoughts of its townprisoned people fieldwards.

On we went, listening to the cuckoo-where ?— and the blackbird-and the thrush-and the little linnet-and some other small contributors to Nature's "Little Warbler"-a pleasing miscellany of songs, "to be had gratis" in the Row:-be particular, however, in inquiring for the right Row-the Hedge-row. Just as we had made up our mind who was the possessor of the desirable copyright" of the words and music of this most interesting collection of old Natural Melodies, and having critically investigated the style of both, liked the unaffected simplicity of the one and the unlearned learning of the counterpoint of the other, we tumbled over a stile of another sort, and upon picking up ourselves, and looking where we were, guessed where we were, and there we were, upon the fifth common, of our uncommonly Common pilgrimage-Wandsworth Common.

On we went, enjoying the fresh, cool, open scene, and the silence, only broken by birds-and the gloriously bright and warm sunset-and the loneliness: for the only living thing we saw-the birds keeping themselves out of sight-was a brown spaniel doga rambling, meditative, humorous dog, like ourself. We looked all round, a circle of some miles, to see if he had a master anywhere thereabouts: no-he was alone: a melancholy Jaques, in a shaggy coat, going about upon all-fours! We did not interrupt the current of his cogitations, and let him pass. The Common was now all ours, and we enjoyed it: we were

"monarchs of all we surveyed," and well to do, and well content. Getting off the Common at last, we found we were in the right road-one lined, on both sides, for a quarter of a mile, with beautiful dwarfoaks, here and there interspersed with two or three poplars and some stately elms; but the oak is, par excellence at least, I think so—the pastoral painter's tree. Look at its innumerable arms, and their graceful attitudes, and the undulating lines they make, and the broad wideness and handsome oneness of the whole, and you will say that it is the landscape-painter's tree. Look at it, and through it, especially at twilight, and you will see more of its beauty than you can behold in the common light of day. A little farther on, I was struck with the care which some one had taken of an old oak tree which grew aslant a pond, and would have tumbled into it, if its main limb had not been under-propped by a stedfast post, and its minor limbs bound up strongly, to support one another, with sheets of iron. Who had this reverence for the old tree, that they would not cut it down, but tended it like a deformed child or old man grown decrepit? I could not help thinking well of him.

On and on we went, and in no long time were again on Clapham Common, now grey with the gradually-deepening dusk of evening. But the birds were not yet abed-the cattle were still croppingthe sheep were still bleating-the crows, vagrants like myself, were returning home, and cawed and chattered in such inharmonious fashion as I should be loth to imitate when I wish to be listened to, as I do sometimes. The Common passed, that most enduring beast of burden, Adam's pad, trotted me safely, at a good pace, down the hill, past Stockwell, through Kennington, and I stepped down from my stirrups at my own humble door in ancient, archie. piscopal Lambeth, untired in mind, untired in limb, and not a whit the worse for all my travails. I used to think that the North side of London was "the ruralest"-to use a town-made idiom: after this day, and the scenery I have seen, I give up that old opinion as heretical, and shall with Richard,

"Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow."

Now, gentle Reader, as you have listened to me so far, listen to me a minute longer, and answer meWhich is more pleasurable-more healthy, hearty, and even entertaining, a walk or a lazy, idling lounge up and down Regent-steet, or such a walk and lounge as I have only half-described up and down hill and dale, and over common, and "thorough weed"—I won't say wood-" and thorough brier ?"-If you will not candidly speak out for the latter, I will; it shall have my voice-a weak one-and my vote and interest. "Think of that, Master Brooke !"

SOME WHIMS OF MR. WAGGLE.

"WHO is Mr. Waggle?" the gentle reader will ask, and by that question shew too plainly that Mr. Waggle has not the honour of being known by them. Well, they cannot be expected to know everybody— "all the world and his wife" and family inclusive; but as it will really and truly be a pleasant task to me to introduce Mr. Waggle to the reader, and the reader to Mr. Waggle, I will do so at once, without further ceremony, because I am sure that they will be pleased to know so pleasant a fellow; and he, on his part, will feel equally happy in making their acquaintance, or more than that, if they like him in their hearts, which I hope-and, indeed, am sure-they will, as the dear old bachelor has many amiable points about him, besides his humour and his whims, and those are not unamiable-for he has almost the monopoly of being a "wit without offence," so rare a specimen of your wit!

The years of Mr. Waggle are, I should say, Wilkes's favourite number-forty-five: he would not confess to so much if he was asked the important question, especially if a lady asked it: if a gentleman desired to know the important fact, he would not mince the matter, but speak out, and as he is a hearty