the cheerful red dormer windows of some quaint Georgian mansion--“The Grove,” or Grove House. As we wander through the place the impression is always the same, a pleasing, old-fashioned tranquillity, the alleys winding irregularly, little shaded corners and open places. And then the memory of Clarissa--most pathetic of heroines, and her painful, sad story--too painful almost to read. It used to be said that Frenchmen were found here asking to be shown “The Flask Inn,” where the persecuted maid took refuge. There is, or used to be, a Flask Inn in Flask Walk, and there is another ancient “Flask,” most picturesque, at Highgate. But the original, genuine Inn might escape the curious. It will be found on the breezy summit of the Heath, at the corner of Heath Street, and facing the reservoir. It is now a private mansion standing in a spacious garden. On the other side of Hampstead there is the attractive Church Row, a unique range of “Queen Anne” houses, through whose windows can be seen glimpses of waving trees and shrubs in the gardens behind. The bottom of the little street is closed by the church, with its quaint, copper spire--not older than the last century, but old enough to harmonize fairly. Round it spreads away its rural churchyard, with paths across it. One of the most delightful walks, familiar enough to Londoners, is that from the breezy summit of the Heath round to Highgate. Here stands the old inn, Jack Straw’s Castle, to which Dickens and his trusty friend Forster used to ride out on some “shoemakers’ holiday,” halting to regale themselves on a chop after their labour of the week. At this old hostelry we have stayed for a week or so, in snug quarters. There was a certain piquancy and originality in the situation; it was “so near and yet so far” from town. The ceaseless halting at the door of the innumerable travellers’ vehicles was curious to note. No one seemed to have power to resist the attraction. The fine old, solid mansion beside it, with its garden, seemed enviable. A quarter of a mile further on we come to that truly Pickwickian inn, “The Spaniards,” where Mrs. Bardell was arrested: a charmingly old-fashioned, rural house, with its tea gardens. We never pass it without calling up the scene--the hackney coach waiting at the gate, Mrs. B. and her friends at one of the little tables, and Mr. Jackson entering with his assistant. In catching this local flavour the novelist was unrivalled. It is difficult to describe the particular charm of a walk through a country district, but this to Highgate is unrivalled.