grove, and its summit, traditionally said to be the spot where George
Barnwell murdered his uncle, the incident that gave rise to Lillo's
pathetic tragedy. But the march of improvement has extended hither--the
walk can scarcely be traced: still there is abundance of timber, for the
grove has disappeared, and scores of new houses have sprung up with almost
magical effect--and the whole scene reminds us of one of the change-scenes
of a pantomime. The builder's _share_ has turned over nearly every inch of
the ground, and fresh gravel and loose loam remind the philosophical
pedestrian that all is change beneath as well as on the surface. Of the
mock villas that have been "put up" in this quarter, we must speak with
forbearance. Their little bits of Gothic plastered here and there; their
puny machicolations, square and pointed arches, and stained glass "cut out
into little stars"--are but sorry specimens of taste, and but poor
indications of comfort. They seem to totter like card-houses, and all their
spick-and-span finery vanishes beside a wing of the picturesque--a cottage
in true rustic taste, with rudely-arched virandahs, formed of limbs and
trunks of trees, intermixed with evergreens, and reminding us of the
"gnarled oaks and soft myrtles" of the poet's fancy; and with trimmed
arches of thatch over little casements, with flowers

"Blinding the lower panes."

Now is the little hatch-gate slammed with the wind, contrasting its rude
sound with the rusty creak of the "invisible" iron fence just set up, but
already

So loose that it but wants another push
To leap from off its hinges;

--the milk-white window-sill, or painted flower-pots ranged on bars of