our party would soon become wearied of uninteresting trivialities and leave us to act as guide to ourselves. We are not going to ferret out houses and names because they belong to Kensington, but shall rather resemble the well informed tourist who carries about sufficient memories of what he has read in Motley and Schiller to make a stroll through Antwerp interesting. The rest we may abandon to the ardent antiquary who would not leave a single street unexplored, or a single house unvisited which had the smallest of claims to the smallest of archeological, historical or civic distinction. Kensington has found such an explorer in Faulkner; though the Kensington of Faulkner is as different in size from the Kensington of to-day as an acorn is from an oak. Our duties are less onerous, nor do we hope to do more than to consider, perhaps from a somewhat different point of view, the subject which our predecessors have treated. When we meet big men we shall say a great deal about them, and when we meet little men we shall say but little about them. Sometimes we may feel inclined to recall to our minds the principal events in some noteworthy life, at others we may have no wish or there may be no necessity for us to

refresh our memories on these points. Living celebrities we shall as a rule avoid, just as the ordinary tourist cannot hope to enter Bismarck's house at Berlin, though he be free to stroll over the Schillerhaus at Weimer. He cannot enter, uninvited, Tennyson's mansion in the Isle of Wight, though he may wander at will through the rooms of Shakespeare's house at Stratford-on-Avon..

We certainly have passed by with lingering regret the names and memories of such men as Leigh Hunt, to whom the Old Court suburb owes so much; James Mill, philosopher and historian, illustrious father of a still more illustrious son; John Leech, and Thackeray who would need almost a volume to himself; yet too great proximity to the picture which he is depicting is apt to make the historian as well as the artist produce blurred and distorted outlines, and there is always some difficulty in saying anything but good while friends and relations still exist to feel hurt at remarks of a contrary nature, be they just or unjust. Besides which, want of material is often a serious obstacle. To this rule we have made but one exception, and we hope both the rule and the exception are judicious.

Why we have waived these objections in one case our fellow travellers will see when we arrive at Holly Lodge.

We shall see then about as much of Kensington as the ordinary traveller does of Malta in a few hours' stay, or of Ghent in a six hours' halt on the way to Brussels. But what we do see we shall see far more thoroughly than the aforesaid traveller; once in a house we shall ransack it from top to bottom, and bring to light all the historical evergreens which flourish in the garden, or the biographical creepers which cover the walls. Such different memories, such a variety of places, persons, and things, as our rambles will present, will account for a difference and variety in our thoughts and style. We may weep over the death of Addison, and laugh over Sidney Smith's jokes, make moral reflections on extravagance and its results when we speak of Gore House, join heartily with Macaulay in entertaining his little nieces and nephews at Holly Lodge, sympathise with the little sick Duke of Gloucester dragging his big head up the staircase at Campden House, or smile at Lady Deloraine pulling George the Second's chair from under him. In short we are ramblers, not historians or anti

quarians, though we may often poach on the preserves of these more august and erudite personages, in which case we shall, for the time being, endeavour to adopt their manners and customs.

The derivation of some words is almost hopeless; they are susceptible of as many meanings as a candidate's election speech or a Runic verse; and one of these words is Kensington. We hope our fellow ramblers will accept the Elfin derivation which has provided us with a title page. If we can believe that it was Kenna" who gave the neighbouring town its name," we shall be saved a world of trouble and some pages of antiquarian disputes. The name is spelt Kensitune, Kenesitune, Kinsintuna, Chenesitun, Chensnetuna, and Kensington. One learned historian considers it to have been the "tun" or town of the Cevesingas; another would ascribe the like honour to a somewhat mythical family of the name of Chenesi. Leigh Hunt somewhat sportively converts by a roundabout process this Chenesi into Cheynès or Cheyneys, tracing this back to Chesne (oak), and chensnet or chestnut, and certainly chestnut trees flourish abundantly in the neighbourhood. But there is a regal flavour

about the more common derivation, Kingstown, from the Saxon Kyning's-tun, which seems very appropriate.

In Anglo-Saxon times there was a most careful division drawn between the King's private property, and that of the nation. The first he could dispose of by will just like any of his subjects. Over the second, his rights were very limited, rather nominal than real. But there was a third class of land, land which belonged to the King as King, yet which, unlike his private property, he required the consent of his parliament to burden or alienate. Such were the royal palaces and farms-the "cyninges tun!" And with this derivation we shall rest satisfied. Kensington has certainly been the abode of royalty, on and off, since the time of Henry the Eighth, and may have been so even in Anglo-Saxon times. Swift christened it kingly Kensington; Leigh Hunt called it the Old Court Suburb. But enough of derivations.

Let the curtain rise on Kensington eight hundred years ago. We should see a vast tract of land, partly forest, and partly marshes. There was certainly one good road, but probably only one. This was the old