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when some rural citizen, retired for a fleeting holiday, far from the cares of the world, "strepitumque Romæ," to the sweet shades of Pentonville, or the remoter plains of Clapham, conducts some delighted visitor over the intricacies of that Dædalian masterpiece which he is pleased to call his labyrinth or maze,—now smiling furtively at his guest's perplexity,—now listening with calm superiority to his futile and erring conjectures,—now maliciously accompanying him