0VT8IDE LONDON. 249 



summer sun, indicating the existence of foundations 

 beneath. 



There is a beautiful view from this spot ; but 

 leaving that now, and wandering on among the fields, 

 presently you may find a meadow of peculiar shape, 

 extremely long and narrow, half a mile long, perhaps ; 

 and this the folk will tell you was the King's Drive, 

 or ride. Stories there are, too, of subterranean 

 passages — there are always such stories in the 

 neighbourhood of ancient buildings — I remember one, 

 said to be three miles long ; it led to an abbey. The 

 lane leads on, bordered with high hawthorn hedges, 

 and occasionally a stout hawthorn tree, hardy and 

 twisted by the strong hands of the passing years; 

 thick now with red haws, and the haunt of the red- 

 wings, whose *' chuck-chuck" is heard every minute; 

 but the birds themselves always perch on the outer 

 side of the hedge. They are not far ahead, but they 

 always keep on the safe side, flying on twenty yards 

 or so, but never coming to my side. 



The little pond, which in summer was green with 

 weed, is now yellow with the fallen hawthorn-leaves ; 

 the pond is choked with them. The lane has been 

 slowly descending; and now, on looking through a 

 gateway, an ancient building stands up on the hill, 

 sharply defined against the sky. It is the banqueting 

 hall of a palace of old times, in which kings and 

 princes once sat at their meat after the chase. This 

 is the centre of those dim stories which float like haze 

 over the meadows around. Many a vfild red stag has 

 been carried thither after the hunt, and many a wild 

 boar slain in the glades of the forest. 



