Come with me for a walk in Covent Garden, you, my country reader, who know not the London of to-day; and you, my friend of the great city, who know not the London of yesterday. As we pass through the crowded Strand we are so jostled by foot-passengers, and so deafened by the noise of vehicles, passing and repassing, that intercourse between us is impossible, but this quiet by-street will quickly lead us to our destination, and soon we shall find ourselves in front of the famous market. A low, rambling building fills up the centre space, which is surrounded on three sides by houses. Here, in the very small hours of the morning, the crowds are as dense and the business is as brisk as in the Strand which we have just left behind us, but during the daytime there is little life or bustle about the market. The fruits, vegetables and flowers, which began to arrive at midnight, are already scattered to the four quarters of the great city, and only a few loiterers stand about at the street corners, or employ themselves in desultory fashion in clearing up the refuse. But you and I are not dependent on market gardeners: “There is a flower which bloometh When autumn’s leaves are cast, Oh, pluck it ere it wither, ’Tis the memory of the past!” This flower is to be found at all times and seasons in Covent Garden. It clings round every stone like the ivy on a ruined tower. In a street hard by the great musician, Thomas Augustine Arne, was born; in the square, on which the market now stands, he played football and cricket with the companions of his boyhood; here, as a young man, he walked and dreamed; here he married, here he died, and here, in the church yonder, he sleeps the last long sleep. [Illustration: DR. T. ARNE.] It is always interesting to note the environment of a great man, and Arne’s environment was exceptionally rich in historic associations. He was born in the reign of Queen Anne—the Augustan age of English literature—and Covent Garden was the cradle of the wit and learning of his time. Let us now continue our walk, and, as we look round us, we will picture to ourselves this scene as it was some two hundred years ago. To our left lies the Church of St. Paul’s. It turns its back to us, but, as if to make up for any seeming unfriendliness, it carries its portico on its back. This church was designed by Inigo Jones in 1631, by command of the Duke of Bedford, who—the story goes—told the architect that he wanted a chapel for the parishioners of Covent Garden, but that he was not minded to expend much money upon it. “In short,” his Grace is reported to have said, “I would have it not much better than a barn.” “Very well,” answered Inigo; “you shall have the handsomest barn in England.”