Hither came Collins, and Leslie, and Constable, as Gainsborough had done before them, for their foregrounds of soft mosses, that underline the sward in late autumn as down does the breasts of birds; and the big bronze dock-leaves, and vari-coloured toadstools, and the painted cups of scarlet peziza[190] that bloom, as it were, on bits of sere wood and dead branches. A lane so lovely that it charmed the ordinary wayfarer, and inspired poets and artists; so that when, some years ago, a correspondent of the _Athenæum_ drew attention to the fact that official vandalism was destroying its natural loveliness, cutting down some of the fine old trees, and lopping others of the umbrageous branches that had shaded the heads of Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, ‘Elia,’ and Leigh Hunt, as well as those of many of our best known and loved artists, a feeling of general indignation was aroused, and much local influence exerted to stop the farther destruction of a spot so full of interest and association, but with what effect I am ignorant. [Illustration: _Coleridge._] To this picturesque old lane, and other lovely bits of Hampstead and its neighbourhood, the triad of poets whose centre was Leigh Hunt’s cottage are indebted for many a rustic image, many an exquisite description of pastoral and woodland scenery. The picturesque old trees, the aerial suggestions, the near cornfields and country lanes, the rippling or moss-muffled rills that then channelled the grassy slopes, and trickled down to the Fleet ditch at Kentish Town, were mentally preserved, to reappear in verse that gives them immortality. From a boy, Leigh Hunt, whose father at one time lived in Hampstead Square, had been familiar with the beautiful suburb, and for some months before the publication of ‘Rimini’ had been daily wandering about the precincts of Caen Wood, and the grassy land ‘From which the trees as from a carpet rise, In knolls, and clumps, with rich varieties,’ just as they did on South Hill half a century ago. There, too, he found his ‘plashy pools with rushes,’ and it may be—for Hampstead Heath has seen many such morns of May: ‘Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green, For a warm eve, and gentle rain at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light. And there’s a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out, A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze, The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And, when you listen, you may hear the coil Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil.’