ornamented with bunches of ribbons, and as tight fitting as a glove. The Gardens seem to have been one of their favourite haunts. Sheridan thus describes their promenades :

"In Kensington-gardens to stroll up and down,
You know was the fashion before you left town;
The thing's well enough, when allowance is made
For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade.
But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords
To those noisy, impertinent creatures called birds,
Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene,
Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen.
Yet though 'tis too rural-to come near the mark,
We all herd in one walk, and that nearest the Park;
There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket,
The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and footmen at cricket.
I must though in justice, declare that the grass
Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace,
In a little time more will be brown, and as flat,
As the sand at Vauxhall or as Ranelagh mat.
Improving thus fast, perhaps by degrees,

We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees,
With a small pretty band in each seat of the walk,
To play little tunes, and enliven our talk."

But, reader, all that nonsense is now a century old. We at least have improved on our ancestors. Walk into Rotten-row any afternoon. Do you see dandies there now? Do you see conceited young jackanapes in patent leather boots, whisking canes, and making

themselves struttingly ridiculous? Do you see ladies in toppling high-heeled boots or nominal bonnets? Do you hear young subalterns drawling insipid nothings to their fair friends? Does anybody wear false plaits? Does anybody affect rouge? No! we may indeed be thankful, no such eye-sores are to be seen now; this is the age of sense and learning. Such fopperies have long since entirely disappeared.

After all, although the history of the Gardens is largely a record of pageants and fopperies, yet great men have passed within their gates, and great men have paced their avenues. Paioli, the Corsican patriot enjoyed a walk here with his friend Boswell, and, half a century later, Blucher sought refuge in the Gardens from the enthusiastic populace who wished one and all to shake hands with the great Prussian general.

Chateaubriand too, delighted to stroll under these beautiful trees, where, in the days of his exile, he used to meet his fellow sufferers, the French priests, reciting their breviary-those trees under which he had "indulged in many a reverie, under which he had breathed many a sigh for his home in La Belle France, under which he had finishedAtala,' and had composed 'Réné.'"

It would be wearisome to recount how often gaily dressed crowds have skated on the frozen Serpentine, and how the fashionables have meandered from one spot to another. The Gardens possess something more interesting than these promenades, human beings more attractive than languishing belles or youths redolent of " tags, feathers, and martial foolery." The proper

time for a visit is about three or four in the afternoon. At that hour, on some summer's day, direct your steps to the Round Pond, or some other portion entirely devoted to the rising generation. What can be more enjoyable than to have some demure little maiden step up to you softly, with her hands nervously clasped behind her back, and in a voice trembling with excitement, enquire the time? If you are wise you will not give a careless reply, or answer her abruptly with some vague guess, but, with an air befitting the importance of the occasion, draw forth your watch, make due allowance for its peculiarities, and tell her the hour to a minute.

Then with a sudden dart your little questioner will skip away to communicate the result of her enquiries triumphantly to her playmates. On such afternoons the view from the round pond with the old

Dutch Palace in the background, and the mingling green of the trees circling round is, we think, marvellously fine. If one but know how to appreciate the youngsters; if a little more attention were paid to the proper cleansing of the Pond itself; and if there were not so many nursemaids and red-coated soldiers to take care of the children, the Gardens would be complete. They must be wise old trees, those that circle the pond; that is if wisdom increase with age. Had they the voice which the Arabian improvisator, and later on our own Poet-Laureate, have bestowed on some of their brethren, what memories they might unfold to us! We should be told how in various ages, they or their ancestors have sheltered the "shorn and sleek monk of the Abbey of Hyde," and the "man-minded offset of Bluff Harry who rose to chase the deer at five;" how the gallants and ladies of the merry Monarch's time have disported themselves beneath their branches, and how to use the poet's own words :

"They have shadowed many a group

Of beauties, that were born

In tea-cup times of hood and hoop,

Or while the Patch was worn."

Nay, the old trees have older memories, for they

may have heard from their gandsires, when yet young

saplings, of the

"Fairies that will flit,

To make the greensward fresh.”

and some rumours may even have reached them of Albion and Kenna.

Yet their work is not yet over, and so long as they afford a pleasant shelter to those who must pass their lives in this smoky, dingy, but after all, pleasant London, so long should Londoners join heartily in singing their praises.