ory of the
well-spent evening of her checkered life, and the allowance we make for
the early impressions of a young creature, called upon to sing her first
songs in a tavern, and sell oranges in the depraved and depraving saloon
of "the King's House;"--when all these aids are exerted to excite our
sympathy, we only accord the sentiment of pity to "poor Nell Gwynne!"

While looking at the house said to have been inhabited by this "_femme
d'esprit par la grace de Dieu_!" we vowed a pilgrimage to Sandford Manor
House, at Sandy End, Fulham,--to the dwelling where there is no doubt
she spent many summer months. Near as it is to our own, we were doubtful
of the way, and determined to inquire of our opposite neighbor, who
keeps the old Brompton tollbar.

"Sandford Manor House," repeated he, "I never heard tell of such a place
in these parts. Whereabouts is it?"

"Exactly what we want to know. It is a very old dilapidated house, by
the side of a little stream that runs into the Thames somewhere by Old
Chelsea. I think you must have heard of it. It was once inhabited by the
famous Nell Gwynne." I might almost as well have talked Hebrew to our
neighbor, who seemed born to lay in wait for market-carts, and pounce
upon them for toll.

[Illustration: SANDFORD MANOR HOUSE.]

"Old house! Nell Gwynne!" he again repeated, and something like an
expression of life and interest moved his features while he added--"It's
the Nell Gwynne public-house you're after, I'm thinking; that was in
Chelsea; but whether it's there now or not, is more than I can tell."

"No, no," we answered, perhaps, sharply, "it is the house she lived in
we want to see--Sandford Manor House."

"Perhaps it's the madhouse," he suggested. We walked on. "Please," said
a little rosy-faced boy, "if you want to find out any thing about old
houses, Hill, the rat-catcher, knows them all, as he hunts up the rats
and sparrows about; and you have only to go down Thistle Grove, into the
Fulham road--straight on. His is a low house, ma'am--his name in the
window--you can't pass it, for the birds and white mice."

And is there no one left, we thought, to tell where the witty,
light-hearted, true-hearted Nelly lived--she who was the friend of
Dryden and Lee, the favorite of Lord Buckhurst, the rival of the Duchess
of Cleveland, the protector of the soldiers of England--the one
unselfish friend of the selfish Charles? Is there no one in a district
that once echoed with the pra