IN DICKENS'S LONDON
Fortunately, my blameless life—how often has it saved me!—brought me the necessary permit,—and the Emblazoned Flunkey was satisfied and I unlimbered my trap on the edge of the great stone curb framing the basin in which were mirrored the overbending sky and gently waving trees. The E. F., now that the regulations had been conformed to, was then gracious enough to extend the non-gushing interim of the geyser's activity until 2 p. m., the water being always turned on again at 1 p. m. (two shillings and six again), but then, of course, everything in the season comes high in London—including fountains.
This done, he took himself off and left me alone to revive the memories of my youth—more especially the two love stories of Mr. Dickens which ring as true to me to-day as they did in the days of my boyhood:—The love of Dot Peerybingle for her husband John, the carman, in that exquisite prose poem, "The Cricket on the Hearth," which comes back to me in the tones of my father's voice, who read it with consummate skill and feeling; and the romance of Ruth Pinch and John Westlock.
Dickens had all London in which to set the scene of Ruth's wooing. There were benches tucked away under sheltering trees in many a park and garden; there were Vaux Hall, Richmond, Greenwich; unfrequented paths leading to the river; John Westlock's chambers in Furnival's Inn when Tom had stepped out for a moment: but none of these would do; there must be the warmth of the sunshine, the joy of laughing water, the caress of tender branches, long vistas of bending foliage, and an infinite perspective of still greater beauty beyond. So he chose a garden in the Temple
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