SWEET HAMPSTEAD. ‘A village revelling in varieties.’ LEIGH HUNT. [Illustration] [Illustration: _A Bit of Old Hampstead, New End._] SWEET HAMPSTEAD AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. BY MRS. CAROLINE A. WHITE. ‘When shall we see you at sweet Hampstead again?’ CONSTABLE. LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1900. I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE CONSERVATORS OF THE HEATH, AND TO ALL WHO LOVE ‘SWEET HAMPSTEAD’ FOR ITS OWN SAKE. THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. As illustrating the very common axiom that extremes meet, a preface at the beginning of a book is, as a matter of course, the last thing that is written. In the present instance, having stated my reasons for writing ‘Sweet Hampstead’ in the introductory chapter, a preface seems almost redundant. Moreover, I have an idea that prefaces as a rule are not popular reading, but literary custom being stronger than private opinion, I must revoke my heresy. It is very many years since the thought of writing the story of Hampstead occurred to me. I found that previous writers had left the most important period of its local history, and the most interesting personages who had vitalized it, with little more than a passing reference; and thence it was that the desire to occupy unbroken ground took possession of me. But the years alluded to were amongst the busiest of a busy life, when I was ‘coining my brains for drachmas,’ or their equivalent in British currency, and had no time for the dreamland of topographical speculation. The engagements, however, that hindered my design opened up many sources of material for future use; and as topography is always a literary mosaic, their diversity tended to enrichment. Thus it came to pass that the first draft of my book was laid aside, but never forgotten, for more than thirty years, and has only recently been reverted to—a task that has been a delight, bringing back—though sometimes through a mist of tears—images of the past, with pleasant memories of sunny days that, looked at from the perspective of eighty-nine years, seem brighter even than sunshine is itself. From such a pile of years I almost lose the author’s dread of the critic. Praise or blame are to me now much the same; but, being a woman, I still prefer the praise.