A GOSSIP INTRODUCTORY.

post; enlivening each ramble with the suggestion of new pleasures, and doubling your enjoyment of the glorious sunshine, by pointing out to you those places which the great, the learned, and the brave, have made harmonious with their fame and wisdom. Nay, if 't is Sunday, we will go with thee. It is a day for rest and reverence; rest for the mind, and harmless recreation for the body.

"Poor sons of toil, oh! grudge them not the breeze

That plays with sabbath flowers, the clouds that play
With sabbath winds, the hum of sabbath bees,

The sabbath walk, the skylark's sabbath lay,

The silent sunshine of the sabbath day."

Come, then, with us; delay no longer: the morning's sun shines sweetly after the evening's rain. Let us seek the path of the quiet fields; brushing aside the dew-gemmed wild flower, and rousing the humble-bee from his deep sleep in the foxglove's hanging bell. Spring, with swelling bosom, and glowing like a young bride with the innocent heat of love, has thrown herself into the arms of Summer. Come, then, with us,

"Where daisies blush, and windflowers, wet with dew;
Where shady lanes with hyacinths are blue;

Where the elm blossoms o'er the brooding bird;

And wide and wild the plover's wail is heard."

Let us throw our fardels from our backs; and rush out to the common or the meadow to rejoice in that release from weariness of spirit, from that cramping of the mind, which rural nature alone can give. Within the reach of a few hours-nay, of a few pence-we will shew thee scenes of rural life, and enjoyments of the country, in our EXCURSIONS ROUND LONDON, which shall dissipate thy cares, and send thee back with freshened spirit and invigorated health to thy labours.

HUNGERFORD STAIRS.

Ianceship with the merry Charles and his thoughtless court, now, in their prime, offer cool leafy shade in hot July, or afford shelter from April showers. Now, as then, the air plays jocund and pleasantly over the trim waters and well-kept paths, raising a tiny ripple, and giving their trembling motion to the leaves; as though the very breeze joyed to gambol even in a city enclosure, after an escapade, all smoke-encumbered, from tortuous court, close alley, and narrow street. The parks are still breathing places, but the "lungs" of the great metropolis are extended. Steam has invited London out of town from each side of the mammoth city do roads of iron whirl her thousands into the pure country air. Each narrow lane leading to the river bank has its pier; and there, too, pants the vapoury giant for a biped-load, to be borne or up or down the stream.

A few shillings now go far towards conquering time and space; and so, having "put money in thy purse," let us together start on our first Excursion,-A Day down the River.

We will take this turning from the Strand, through the handsome but not over busy market, and start from Hungerford Stairs. The barges, moored side by side, jutting into the stream, and dignified by the title of "pier," have little safety and still less convenience; but a glance around us, when we reach the last of them, affords abundant amusement to the sight, and matter fruitful for memory, pregnant of reflection. A small knot of people in one corner have been increasing, and evidently wait for an especial boat. A portly matron, with a collection of well-stored baskets; a group of city-reared children, laboriously looked after by a small- -a very small-Cinderellalike serving-maid; a thin, nervous papa, worn to the bone by the "hurry of business," and by paternal anxieties for the rapidly rising generation; two Sunday-dressed apprentices, vigorously striving after the genteel, and escorting sweetheartsa sort of contraband indulgence unknown to masters or to mistresses; several sedate-looking men-merchants, stockbrokers, or warm tradesmen;" three or four mechanics keeping "Saint Monday;" with two sailors and a sergeant of artillery, make up the party. "Greenwich! Woolwich!" shouts a steam-captain, as his boat comes rudely against the pier, making the barge

66

BUCKINGHAM GATE.

rock under our feet, while each of the sweethearts seem willingly, perforce, to cling faster and closer to their several swains. To Greenwich will we go. A minute suffices to take in passengers. "Go a-head!" is the word; and the moving panorama commences as we float down the river of rivers, through the heart of the mightiest city of modern times.

Let us note, as rapidly as the pace we are going, each point of interest we pass. Look! but a stone's throw from the market is a water-gate, now out of use, and, as the tide is low, beyond reach of the stream. Banks of mud surround it, on which

here and there are thick rank beds of rushy grass. It is plainly a by-gone; it has clearly outlived its original purpose. That gate, the only remnant of a princely mansion belonging to the Dukes of Buckingham, was designed by Inigo Jones, and in its day vaunted as "the most perfect piece of building that did honour to his name." The rustic basement and graceful columns still attest the taste and skill of the architect; but cankered lock and rusty hinges tell that its day of usefulness has gone with the old palace-mansion to which it was the modern addition. Its aspect of neglect, if not of ruin, prompts memory of by-gone times and manners, and throws the mind back to the day when this bank of the river was