relative, and Neptune swears by the Styx to overthrow the tyrant Oberon. In the meantime Oriel, by a liberal use of his treasures, has gathered beneath his banner half the fairy nation. Hearing of the powerful aid which Albion is to receive from old Neptune, he consents, for the purpose of mutual vengeance, to place his rival at the head of his assembled forces. The rebel army is set in motion to the shrill sound of the cornpipe and marches towards the capital, its rows of spears glittering in the air like a grove of needles. The intention is to surprise the fairy monarch in his palace, but the sudden dimness of a magic ring warns Oberon of the approaching danger. His legions are marshalled under the command of Azuriel. Albion defies his hated rival to mortal combat, and with a terrific sword-stroke cleaves his opponent "from the shoulder to the waist." But fairies, it appears, possessed that same convenient facility of re-uniting severed members of their bodies which has been attributed to snakes. Azuriel in a second becomes, like china mended with the Crystal Palace Paste, as good as new; and before Albion can recover from his astonishment, his fairy foe pierces

him to the heart with a sabre thrust. The unfortunate lover, murmuring the name of his mistress, sighs his soul away, and the rebel army become reconciled to their king.

But Albion is not to die unrevenged. His expiring groan reaches the ears of his ancestor, Neptune. The sea-god in his rage at the fate of his kinsman lashes the ocean into storms, mounts his car, and ascends the Thames with the roar of the whirlwind. One step brings his "towering stature" to Brompton, another to the scene of the recent combat. Convulsed with vindictive fury, the ocean-god strikes his trident deep into the earth, and rooting up the whole of the fairy capital at a blow, brings it down, towers, domes, and pinnacles on the head of the two armies, crushing in its fall all to atoms. Oberon, with some of his nobles, manage to escape from this scene of desolation. Haunted by the fear of Neptune, they seek the parts of England farthest from the sea. Some hide in the gloomy caverns of the Peak, others take up their abode in dark woods and secret shades, and are now visible only at rare intervals to mortal eyes. Meanwhile Kenna, bending over the body of her

lover, fruitlessly endeavours to restore him to life. In vain does she deplore her own immortal youth, which forbids her to join him. At length (and here we see the benefit of the botanical lessons) she sheds the juice of a magic plant on her lover's corpse, and, with the aid of mystic numbers, transforms him into a snowdrop, the first of its kind.

For centuries the site of the fairy capital remains a waste. But then the hamlet of Kensington which, as we have said before, derives its name from that of the unhappy princess, springs up. First, the princely De Veres, and then Sir Walter Cope fix their residence on the site of Azuriel's palace, and at last William of Orange adorns the spot with his regal presence, and Kenna is proud to see one of her lover's race choose the Gardens for his home. The public are under a mistaken idea that Mr. Wise planted the Gardens after his own ideas. This is an error.. Kenna, unseen, instilled the plan into his brain, and pictured out in rows of yew the walls and streets of the fairy town. To this leafy counterpart of her father's once glorious capital, the bereaved fay still resorts on the anniversary of the day when her lover died. And here, fellow

ramblers, if you can but find the exact spot and the precise time, you may yet see the beauteous Kenna leading, at the head of her fairy train, the moonlight dance in honour of her lost Albion.

This true and authentic history is to be found in what has been termed Tickell's "dreary mythological poem," entitled Kensington Gardens. Johnson sententiously declares that the versification of the work is elegant, but the fiction unskilfully compounded of Grecian Deities and Gothic Fairies. "Neither species of these exploded beings," he adds, "could have done much; and when they are brought together, they only make each other contemptible." But this is too sweeping a criticism. At all events Tickell might have pleaded the example of Shakespeare, who commits the same fault, if it be a fault, in his Midsummer Night's Dream.

is Kenna's Kingdom; the

Kensington then is

kingdom which we propose to explore.

Let us,

still keeping our seat in the Gardens, proceed to take a general view of our intended tour and map out our forthcoming expeditions. Kenna's Kingdom

is a suburb of London in the hundred of Ossulton. Shall we attempt to map out the boundaries of this kingdom? Better not, for boundaries too often cause debates and disagreeables, and the boundaries of Kensington are as unsettled as those of Russia. Like that country, too, it has tendencies to swallow up the smaller surrounding States, but then the States, ask for nothing better than annexation. With parochial Kensington we have nothing to do; it does not even include Oberon's capital-the Palace. We expect that even Kensingtonians themselves would be puzzled to determine exactly what they mean by Kensington, and therefore we had better not attempt any exact definition of the term, on which, as on a great many more important subjects, people may imagine that they all agree, until some unhappy argument awakes them from their blissful ignorance, and they find that everbody differs from everbody else. Besides, for us the question is not really an important one. We do not purpose making an exhaustive survey of the kingdom, nor do we intend dragging our fellow ramblers into all sorts of out of the way nooks and corners, for the very good reason that we are sure