We have slummed together in Clerkenwell, Smithfield, Cow Cross,
Petticoat Lane, Ratcliffe Highway, and the East India and West
India docks.
She has been with me to penny gaffs and music-halls; to Greenwich Fair,
and Cremorne and Rosherville gardens--and liked them all. She knew
Pentonville as well as I do; and my old lodgings there, where we have
both leaned over my former shoulder as I read or drew. It was she who
rescued from oblivion my little prophetic song about "The Chime," which
I had quite forgotten. She has been to Mr. Lintot's parties, and found
them most amusing--especially Mr. Lintot.
And going further back into the past, she has roamed with me all over
Paris, and climbed with me the towers of Notre Dame, and looked in vain
for the mystic word [Greek: Anagkae]!
But I had also better things to show, untravelled as I was.
She had never seen Hampstead Heath, which I knew by heart; and Hampstead
Heath at any time, but especially on a sunny morning in late October, is
not to be disdained by any one.
Half the leaves have fallen, so that one can see the fading glory of
those that remain; yellow and brown and pale and hectic red, shining
like golden guineas and bright copper coins against the rich, dark,
business-like green of the trees that mean to flourish all the winter
through, like the tall slanting pines near the Spaniards, and the old
cedar-trees, and hedges of yew and holly, for which the Hampstead
gardens are famous.
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