In this Tale we read of the funeral of _Cly_, the Old Bailey Informer; the interment taking place in the burial-ground attached to the ancient church of St. Pancras in the Fields. This edifice still exists in PANCRAS ROAD (east side, opposite _Goldington Crescent_), which leads from King’s Cross, northward, to Kentish Town. There is a church of the same name to be found in the EUSTON ROAD—east of _Upper Woburn Place_, but this is altogether another and more modern structure than the one above referred to. A century since, at the time of the funeral described, the name of this locality was literally correct; the church being situated in the outlying fields of the suburban village of PANCRAS. We may here recollect the fishing expedition undertaken by _Mr. Cruncher_ and his two companions, on the night following the funeral; when young _Jerry_ quietly followed his “honoured parent,” and assured himself of the nature of his father’s secret avocation. GREAT EXPECTATIONS. Mr. Jaggers, the Old Bailey lawyer, had his private residence on the south side of _Gerrard Street_, _Soho_, where he lived in solitary state, with his eccentric housekeeper, the mother of Estella: “Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in want of painting, and with dirty windows.” Wemmick’s Castle at _Walworth_ is altogether a place of the past; Walworth being now one of the most populous and crowded of metropolitan districts. We read that in Pip’s time “It appeared to be a collection of black lanes, ditches, and little gardens, and to present the aspect of a rather dull retirement. Wemmick’s house was a little wooden cottage in the midst of plots of garden, and the top of it was cut out and painted like a battery mounted with guns.” Mr. Barley, _alias Old Gruff-and-Glum_, lived at _Mill Pond Bank_, by Chinks’s Basin and the Old Green Copper Rope-walk. Pip says the place was anything but easy to find. Losing himself among shipbuilders’ and shipbreakers’ yards, he continues the description of his search as follows:— “After several times falling short of my destination, and as often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill Pond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered, where the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there were two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined windmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Rope-walk—whose long and narrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden frames set in the ground, that looked like superannuated haymaking rakes, which had grown old and lost most of their teeth. Selecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank, a house with a wooden front and three storeys of bow-window (not bay-window, which is another thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there Mrs. Whimple . . . the name I wanted.” OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.