Since I first knew this part of Hampstead it has grown into quite a large and noisy suburb of the town, and the secluded and rustic character of the Vale has wholly changed. Rows and terraces of fifth-rate houses cover the grassy slopes and gravelly mounds, then crested with furze-bushes and occasional beds of heath, and the turf that, in spite of the thousands of feet that at Easter and Whitsuntide trod it nearly bare, continued to renew itself. There was not much left for the botanist on the East Heath, but plenty of space and freshness, and the wild simplicity of natural heathland, for the twice yearly throngs of visitors from the dull courts and stifling alleys of London. Now two large hideous buildings, utterly out of character with the locality, dominate the houses—the one a German club-house, the other used for refreshment-rooms, which have partly put an end to the simple, out-of-doors accommodation of the cottage folk. [Illustration: _The Vale of Health._] This part of the Vale is further vulgarized by what appears to be a stationary steam merry-go-round, swings, etc., additions to the ‘’Appy ’Ampstead’ of ’Arry and ’Arriet, but an eyesore to those who imagine the freshness of leafy trees and greensward would be more real enjoyment to town-worn folk than the conventionalities of a country fair, or a gas-lighted corner off the High Street, Battersea. Yet, as long as Hampstead survives, and that infelt law of attraction in human hearts to visit the homes of men and women whose thoughts have touched the spirits and enriched the minds of tens of thousands of their fellow-creatures, so long will Hampstead have its pilgrims, and Leigh Hunt’s lowly cottage be sought for. I can hardly get away from it, with its memories, not only of the poet-essayist, but of his affinities. The best writers, and other men ‘of mark and likelihood,’ in the first decades of our swiftly-waning century, were its guests, and shared those frugal _symposia_ that Cowden Clarke has told us of, severely simple, at which not the viands, but the company, made the feast. And then, on summer evenings, the strolling on to the Heath, of which the cottage was but the vestibule, with Clarke and Shelley, or Lamb and Keats, watching the glorious sunsets from the western heights, and lingering on till twilight deepened and the stars came out. Or waiting at high-tides, till the white moonlight of the summer night enwrapped the woods, and Heath, and shining ponds, and made the whole scene one of ethereal beauty, the charms of which, and of their own converse, belated them, until the early thrush and blackbird serenaded the dawn, and the friends said ‘Good-night’ and ‘Good-morning’ in the same breath. CHAPTER XII. _CAEN WOOD._