The Old Court Suburb, or Memorials of Kensington, Regal, Critical, and Anecdotical, Volume II

Hunt, Leigh





WITH the decease of George the Second,


glory departed from Kensington, as far as Courts were concerned. No reigning sovereign has resided there since. George the Third, who inheriting, perhaps, a dislike of the place from his father, the Prince of Wales, appears to have taken no notice of it, except in appointing the clever, but impudent, quack, Sir John Hill, its gardener, at the recommendation of Sir John's then omnipotent brother botanist, the Earl of Bute.

George the Fourth probably regarded the place as a homely concern, quite out of his line. It might suit well enough the book- collecting inclinations of his brother, the Duke of Sussex, with which he had no sympathy; was not amiss as a means of affording a lodging to his brother, the Duke of Kent, with whose habits of regularity,


and pardonable amount of debt, his sympathies were as little; and, lastly, he was well content to think, that the staid-looking house and formal gardens rendered the spot a good out-of-the-way sort of place enough, for obscuring the growth and breeding of his niece, and probable heiress, the Princess Victoria, whose life, under the guidance of a wise mother, promised to furnish so estimable a contrast to his own. As to his brother, King William the Fourth, though he too was a brother, in most respects, very different from himself, we never heard his name mentioned in any way whatever in connection with Kensington.

Adieu then, for the present, and for we know not how long a time hereafter, to Court-holdings in the Palace; to Court


splendours, and Court scandals. Adieu, Kings listening in closets, and Queens calumniated by ungrateful biographers. Adieu, even Maids of Honour. They departed their Kensington life with George the Second, and went to live a terribly dull one, with his grandson's Queen, Charlotte, who nearly tired Miss Burney into a consumption.

As we cannot help giving a loving and pitying look at the departing Maids, we here transcribe, for the benefit of the sympathizing reader, the latest account we can find of them, in King George the Third's History. It is the latest account of the sisterhood, in any history; and must be taken with allowance for the exaggerations natural to the scape-grace to whom it is attributed; namely, the " wicked Lord


Lyttleton," as he was called, to distinguish him from his father and others, the good Lords. The authorship is questionable; but the details seem founded on good authority; and any amount of dullness might be looked for, among the Maids of Honour of Queen Charlotte. The reader will observe, in the course of the account, that the poor Maids, ghosts of their former selves, occasionally paid visits to the spot which had been animated by their predecessors.

" To make up at least two Court suits in a year (says the writer) ; to dance as many Court minuets in the same space; to sidle, on days of duty, through the presence- chamber, at the tail of a royal procession; to take her place in an established corner of the drawing-room; to say 'Yes, Sir,' or


'No, Sir,' and courtesy, when she is noticed by the King; to say, 'Yes, Madam,' and 'No, Madam,' and courtesy, when the Queen does her the same honour; to make an occasional one of six large hoops, in a royal coach, and to aid the languor of an easy party, in a side-box at a royal play; compose the principal labours of a Maid of Honour's life.

"But they are not without their rewards. A moderate salary, and a thousand pounds, when Miss gets an husband; an apartment in a palace, and, I believe, a dinner from a royal kitchen; in a rotation of six weeks, a seven days' possession of a royal coach, a royal coachman, and a shabby pair of royal horses, for the purpose of shopping in the city, and paying distant visits; airings in the King's Road, and the


being set down at the very gate of Kensington Gardens, while women of the first fashion are obliged to trip it o'er an hundred yards of green-sward, between their coaches and the place of admittance; to take place of Baronets' daughters; to go to plays, operas, and oratorios, gratis; to have physicians without fees, and medicines without the apothecary's bill; to chat with Lords and Grooms of the Bed-chamber, around the fire of an ante-chamber; to stroke the beardless face of a new-made page; and, perhaps, to receive an Heir-Apparent's first effort at flirtation; constitute the various privileges of a Maid of Honour.

"This brief history, my dear friend, you well know to be founded on fact, and will, therefore, be ready to applaud the tender pity I feel for these virgin automatons. I


have never seen them bringing up the rear of a royal train, but each of them has appeared to bear, in legible characters, on her forehead, 'Who will marry me?' Nevertheless, upon the most favourable average, not one in three years, during the present reign, has been rewarded by Hymen; which, in their particular situation, it is as pitiable a circumstance as can be found in the long catalogue of female mortifications.

"A Lady of the Bed-chamber is obliged only to do partial duty; and, during the short period of her attendance, is, in some degree, the companion of her royal mistress; while the Virgins of Honour are not admitted, as I have been informed, to stick a pin in a royal handkerchief. Even the Women of the same department figure only in her Majesty's cast off gowns, on royal


birth-days; but these poor persecuted damsels are the common hackneys of drawing-room parade: whether ill or well, in humour, or out of humour, by day-light, or by candle-light, they are obliged, through three parts of the year, to be on the continual stretch of state official exhibition.

"I remember, when I was little more than a boy, to have seen a young lady in training for this important office; and the whole of that serious business consisted in nothing more than a practical lecture upon entrances and exits, the language of courtesies, and the art of conducting a large hoop in all modes and forms of possible pliancy. * * *

"After this manner did I treat the Honourable Subject of her Majesty's Honourable Virgins; and little did I think it would beget a long admonitory epistle from you,


to warn me against speaking evil of dignities. My wit, such as it is, has never directed a single glance at the Throne."

So much for the disparagements of the poor maids by the wit that would not speak evil of dignities! The lovely Dillons and Stanleys of the present day will know how to estimate such ungallant distinctions at their just value, and smile to think how little they need the pity bestowed on the unmarrying attendants of grudging Queen Charlotte.

But if no reigning sovereign has lived in Kensington Palace, since the time of George the Second, a sovereign grace, of a new description, has occurred to it; for Queen Victoria was born, as well as bred, within its walls. We regret, as a special personal disappointment, (if many loyal and loving reasons may warrant us in so speaking,)


that, while these pages have been proceeding from our pen, constant illness has prevented us from availing ourselves of a gracious permission to see the interior of Kensington Palace. We wished, for the sake of our readers, as well as ourselves, to see the pictures there, especially those of the Byzantine and early German, and other painters, that form the collection of Prince Louis d'Ottingen Wallerstein ; but we wished, for our own sake in particular, to find ourselves in the rooms which hold them, for in those Her Majesty passed her childhood; and long before we had other reasons for wishing to do so, or dreaming that we ever should have, we remember well the peculiar kind of personal pleasure which it gave us to see the future Queen, the first time we ever did see her, coming


up a cross path from the Bayswater gate, with a girl of her own age by her side, whose hand she was holding, as if she loved her. It brought to our mind the warmth of our own juvenile friendships; and made us fancy that she loved everything else that we had loved in like measure,-books, trees, verses, Arabian tales, and the good mother who had helped to make her so affectionate.

A magnificent footman, in scarlet, came behind her, with the splendidest pair of calves, in white stockings, that we ever beheld. He looked somehow like a gigantic fairy, personating, for his little lady's sake, the grandest kind of footman he could think of; and his calves he seemed to have made out of a couple of the biggest chiase-lamps in the possession of the godmother of Cinderella.


As the princess grew up, the world seemed never to hear of her, except as it wished to hear;-that is to say, in connexion with her mother; and now it never hears of her, but in connexion with children of her own, and her husband, and her mother still, and all good household pleasures and hospitalities, and public virtues of a piece with them. May life ever continue to appear to her what, indeed, it really is to all who have eyes for seeing beyond the surface; namely, a wondrous fairy scene, strange, beautiful, mournful too, yet hopeful of being "happy ever after" when its story is over; and wise, meantime, in seeing much where others see nothing, in shedding its tears patiently, and in doing its best to diminish the tears around it.

Writing to his friend, Hannah More,


from Kensington, on the 21st of July, , Mr. Wilberforce says, "In consequence of a very civil message from the Duchess of Kent, I waited on her this morning. She received me with her fine animated child on the floor, by her side, with its playthings, of which I soon became one. She was very civil; but as she did not sit down, I did not think it right to stay above a quarter of an hour, and there being but a female attendant and a footman present, I could not well get up any topic, so as to carry on a continued discourse. She apologized for not speaking English well enough to talk it; but intimated a hope that she might talk it better and longer with me at some future time. She spoke of her situation (this was, probably, in reference to the treatment of her and hers, at the hands of the Prince


Regent) and her manner was quite delightful."

Hearty reason has the nation to rejoice, that neither Mr. Wilberforce nor Miss Hannah More had anything to do with their Queen's education; though, had the case been otherwise, we trust that the good sense which she inherited from both her parents, would have rendered it harmless. She had too much joyfulness, and justice, and universality, in her nature, to allow her to fall into those supposed-religious, but really profane, desecrations, both of this world and the next, which such persons would inflict on us. And thus we have a Queen who sees fair play to all that mean well, and who can rejoice and grieve impartially with her subjects of all classes, like a right, sovereign, human creature; and not stint and begrudge her


sympathies, like the Queen of a clique in a corner.

So much for the latest points of remembrance in connexion with the Palace at Kensington. We will now look back a little in order to finish with those of the Gardens; for the death of George the Second did not put an end to the weekly promenades. They lasted throughout the long reign of his successor, and only terminated with his son's accession to the Regency. Hence, we may still fancy all that was brilliant and fashionable, or in any manner distinguished, good or bad, in the successive generations of the last half of the eighteenth century, and the two first decades of the nineteenth, making its appearance as such in the Kensington Great Walk, delighting the scientific eyes of drapers and mantua-


makers, and attracting crowds of adorers from the city.

At the beginning of the new reign, the promenaders would be much the same as before, with the addition of a few Germans, who had come over with the new Queen. The Queen herself would hardly be there; for one publicity of expectancy begets another; and the new sovereigns kept much, and economically, at home; gave no dinners or gala-days; nor, though a ball now and then, even a supper after the ball.

Miss Chudleigh, not yet Duchess of Kingston, was still in request. The young ladies who have figured as actresses at Holland House, Lady Susan Fox, and the charming Lady Sarah Lenox, with whom the young King had been said to be in love, were, perhaps, the greatest attractions in the Walk.



There, also, might probably be seen the beautiful Countess of Waldegrave, an illegitimate Walpole, who, before the marriage- act had put an end to such ambitions, became the wife of the King's brother, the Duke of Gloucester, and mother of the late Duke, not long deceased. Kitty Clive, the actress, would also be there, looking more intelligent than handsome; and the notorious Kitty Fisher, the Venus of the day, would contribute a face as insipid as Venus herself (that is to say, the Venus de Medicis). Her charm consisted, we suppose, in the unexpected things which such a face would utter; we mean, in the way of slang: a contrast in which Horace Walpole found something very bewitching.

This is the lady, we believe, who, by way of making a sensation, and showing her


superiority to vicissitudes, emulated the pearl- melting of Cleopatra by eating a bank-note (we forget for what sum) in the guise of a sandwich. George Selwyn, Lord March, and such like worthies, would be there as before; Wilkes also, indulging his gallant squint; and Bubb Doddington, during the month in which he was a " young lord" though a corpulent senior, bigger for his huge, gaudy clothes. Madame de Boufflers gave a look in from Paris. The mysterious phenomenon called the chevalier, or chevaliere, d'Eon, showed its doubly-diplomatic face: and Rousseau, who was in England about this time, might even have given a pitying, misanthropical glance down the foolish assemblage.

We know not whether Johnson was ever to be found in these promenades a little later in the reign; but very likely he was, considering


that he was as great, though a somewhat more frightened admirer of pretty ancles, as his friend Richardson. And Goldsmith assuredly would not suffer his blossom-coloured coat to be lost to the assembled world, while its lustre was yet upon it. How could the Woffingtons, and the Lady Cravens and Bolingbrokes, and charming Mrs. Abington with her Roxalana nose be there, and Oliver, emboldened by his coat, not snatch the fearful joy of deeming himself admired as well admiring ? He has no time to lose; for see-the young author of the " School for Scandal," parliamentary orator and gallant duellist, is coming up the walk, with his bride the beauteous Linley on his arm;' and all hearts will be his, if his little countryman does not strike first.

A few years later, poor Miss Ray is in


danger of being shot, by her lover, the Reverend Mr. Hackman (as she was afterwards), for coming modestly along, leaning on the arm of Lord Sandwich. General Burgoyne badly represents the American War, but not inelegantly the taste for polite comedy. Charles Fox astonishes his friends, for a day or so, by appearing with Lords Carlisle and Essex in red-heeled shoes, and feathers in his hat. Burke looks round the place with an eye to reformation, but a few years later is for keeping it all in statu quo at any price, as a rebuke to his brother reformers at Paris.

Meantime, George, Prince of Wales, has arrived at "years of indiscretion;" and the Mary Robinsons, the Crouchs, and the Fitzherberts, pass in fascinating succession down the Walk. Then Mrs. Siddons, very respectable


and majestic. Then the lovely Duchess of Devonshire, poetess, Queen of Hearts, and carrier of Westminster elections -the sweetest of stars in the gracefullest of aristocratic houses. Then the Duchess of Gordon, as fond of power for power's sake, as the other is for persuasion's. Then Warren Hastings and his " elegant Marian," sole conqueress (except her sister in jewellery, the Kingston Duchess) of the reputation-loving court samples of Queen Charlotte. Then Miss Farren, an actress, setting a real example of manners to the polite world, and escaping from notice into a coronet!

And now the French Revolution brings an inundation of emigrants, male and female, preceded by Egalite, Duke of Orleans, who is come to add orgies to orgies at Carlton


House; and none of them know what to make of ex-bishop Talleyrand, who represents all parties by turns, and abides for a while in Kensington, as we have seen, confounding all notions of old French propriety, by abandoning his cloth and his gallantries, and paying his debts. At this strangest of all epochs in the history of the world, there might probably have been seen in these gardens, on one and the same day, in the portentous year , Wilkes and Wilberforce; George Rose and Mr. Holcroft; Mr. Reeve and Mr. Godwin; Burke, Warren Hastings, and Thomas Paine; Horace Walpole and Hannah More (whom he introduces to the Duke of Queensberry;) Mary Wolstonecroft and Miss Burney (Madame d'Arblay), the latter avoiding the former with all her might;


and the Countess of Albany (the widow of the Pretender); the Margravine of Anspach; Mrs. Montagu; Mrs. Barbauld; Mrs. Trimmer; Emma Harte (Lady Hamilton), accompanied by her adoring portrait- painter, Romney; and poor Madame du Barry, mistress of the late Louis XV., come to look after some jewels of which she has been robbed, and little suspecting she would return to be guillotined.

The fashions of this half-century, with the exception of an occasional broad-brimmed hat, worn both by gentlemen and ladies, comprised the ugliest that ever were seen. Head-dresses became monstrous compounds of pasteboard, flowers, feathers, and pomatum; the hoop degenerated into little panniers; and about the year , a set of travelled fops came up, calling themselves


Macaronis, from their intimacy with the Italian eatable so called, who wore ridiculously little hats, large pigtails, and tight-fitting clothes of striped colours. The lesser pigtail, long or curly, prevailed for a long time among elderly gentlemen, making a powdered semicircle between the shoulders; a plain cocked- hat surmounted their heads; and, on a sudden, at the beginning of the new century, ladies took to having turbans, surmounted with ostrich feathers, and bodies literally without a waist, the girdle coming directly under the arms. The bosom protruded at top, as if squeezed out by the girdle- strings. There was a song in those days, beginning:

"Shepherds, I have lost my love: Have you seen my Anna ?"


as all changes tend to produce others, and the middle classes now began to tread closely in all respects on the heels of the upper, filling up the vacancies in the Kensington Garden promenades with too many supplies from Marylebone and the City, the promenades themselves came suddenly to nothing. Their only remnant, if remnant it can be called (it is rather a select difference, and a great improvement), is the congregation, twice a week, during the summer season, of a reasonable number of ladies and gentlemen at the south-eastern junction of the Gardens and Hyde Park; who, partly walking about, and partly sitting on chairs, or remaining outside the garden boundary on horseback, listen to charming strains of music from operas and concertos, performed by the band of one of the regiments of guards.



This song was parodied by one beginning-

"Shepherds, I have lost my waist; Have you seen my body ?"

We remember this dress in our boyhood, and never have we beheld anything so monstrous.

The French Revolution put an end to cocked-hats, to pigtails, to hair-powder; and, by degrees, introduced the classical female costume that prevailed at the Tuilleries under the First Consul. The hoop, under the regency of the Prince of Wales, disappeared from its last stronghold, the Court. The Prince liked to contemplate the shapes of the ladies, though he had now become willing enough to disguise his own in stays and trowsers, which, accordingly, became fashionable; and



To this novelty, a very agreeable and unexpected one was added not many years since; to wit, a considerable strip of public flower garden. The flowers, and the trees also, are labelled with their botanic as well as popular names; and as many of both are not common, and, at the same time are beautiful, not only is general information diffused, but cultivators learn what to ask for of gardeners and nurserymen, and gardens in general profit accordingly.

It is calculated, that England is now three or four times the country it used to to be in regard to its shew of flowers, and that the importation of foreign trees, particularly from America, has given its parks, and will ultimately give its woods and field-sides, an addition of autumnal colours, very like changing its landscape from northern to


southern, or from greys and dingies, to reds, oranges, and gold.

The late public-spirited Mr. Loudon, who had a main hand in bringing about the recent improvements of this kind, both here and elsewhere, got the old wall in the Bayswater Road exchanged for an iron railing, which gives the wayfarer a pleasant scene of shrubs and green leaves as he goes along, instead of dusty old brick-work; and though too many of the shrubs and new trees, in the line of the railing, are not yet sufficiently grown to keep up the old sense of seclusion, and so render the walker in the gardens equally content with the change, a few years will restore him his satisfaction. New trees had become necessary not only in this part of the gardens, but in the whole of them. Multitudes of the old ones had grown up slender


and sickly for want of room; and at length were rotting. They were thinned off for new ones; and though a mistake, much to the distress of Loudon, was made at the head of the Serpentine, by the erection of a miserable "dumb-waiter " kind of fountain, dripping wretchedly on its little shelves, (the chill English always seem afraid of making a good-sized fountain) the sorry trifle is, at. all events, stopped for the present, and something like a natural spring of water may perhaps still be looked for, to greet the dusty turner out of the high-road, and harmonize with the ever-pleasant swans.

Besides the rarer trees in the strip of garden-ground properly so called, and the trees common to woody places in the Gardens in general, there are some good specimens of beech here, and some more than usually fine


ones, both of the horse-chesnut and the sweet chesnut. The horse-chesnuts, thick with leaves, and throwing up in abundance their noble pyramidal blossoms, form a beautiful greeting for the pedestrian in spring, as he comes from Piccadilly towards the entrance into Kensington High Street.

Ordinary birds of course abound, both singing and cawing, though it has never been our good fortune to hear the nightingale. The return of rooks towards nightfall often gives Kensington the look of a remote country town. The nut-hatch has been frequently caught in the Gardens; it is not improbable that the rare and beautiful bird the hoopoe (Upupa epops) may be seen there during the prevalence of the east winds, which are understood to drive it hither from the continent; and we ourselves have seen the jay,


with its lovely delicate blue and other colours, though it is a bird very shy of observers.

As to fish, all we can say is, that we have seen boys, with faces no wiser than the fish they caught, succeed in throwing a number of " tittle-bats" on the grass by the Serpentine, where they leaped and gasped out their wretched little souls with ineffectual efforts to gulp the air.

A satirical or hypercritical observer of Kensington might say, that it has a Palace which is no palace, Gardens which are no gardens, and a river called the Serpentine, which is neither serpentine nor a river. It is an angular piece of water made (as before stated) out of some ponds; which ponds, we have now to add, were made, we believe, out of a brook which rises in West-End Lane, Hampstead. The brook makes a considerable


plash in that lane in bad weather; and you may occasionally notice it in dry, looking like a transparent bit of gutter. The Serpentine, which covers fifty acres of ground, is partly in the Gardens and partly in Hyde Park; and the division is made by a bridge, which being itself divided by a fence, accommodates passengers in two places at once. Boats may now be hired on it in the summer time, on the Garden as well as on the Park side of the bridge. They enable the catchers of the tittle-bats to fancy themselves rowers; and not long since, the fountain above-mentioned enabled them to fancy that they had seen a fountain; but for the present, they must go and study for that purpose the other drivelling attempts called by that name, in front of the out-house called the National Gallery.



The most unpretending piece of water is the great pond, or basin, in front of the Palace, from the sides of which the principal walks diverge. In summer time, the refreshment of its appearance is increased by the hot gravel of the walks; and in winter, the ear is pleasantly greeted by the tinkling, and the eye by the crowding, of the happy skaiters, not the less happy, and very reasonably so, because the pond is shallow; for a cold bath in winter time is not to be desired, especially with ones clothes on; and though life itself is not to be put into competition with great calls for its sacrifice, there is something ridiculous, as well as grievous, in losing it by such a thing as a ducking.

It is pleasant, however, in default of having a real and a better river at hand, to walk by the Serpentine in fine weather;


for the water flows, and there is air upon it, and grass is under one's feet, and trees round about us. With the Hyde Park half of it we have nothing to do in these pages; nor is the sense of the pleasure there so sequestered as that in the Gardens. What may be called the river-side of the Gardens, is on this account altogether the most agreable; meaning by river-side, not merely the side of the water, but the wood in its neighbourhood, and its sequestered-looking paths. Prospects of any kind the Gardens can hardly be said to possess, for none even of the vistas are worth mentioning, except that, perhaps, such as it is, and as topographers have observed, which looks from one point in this quarter towards the Palace. Nevertheless, as comparativeness gives value to everything, great or small, Kensington Gardens are a truly


valuable possession to the neighbourhood, and to the metropolis in general. They afford safe walks to invalids and to children; sequestered ones to lovers of quiet; shades in summertime to the heated; dry passages in winter to crossers over the district; birds, trees, and flowers to the lovers of them: and upon the whole, something altogether different to those who wish it, from town, from noise, or from the town's most painful or perplexing sights; for here, though angling is allowed, which is a pity and ridiculous, sporting in general is not. You hear no sound, and see no sight, to make you wish that the setter of his wits against hare and pheasant

"Had shot as he was used to do."

The poet may turn his verse, the philosopher his axioms, and the lover his affectionate


thoughts, with no greater interruption than the call of a bird, or the sound of a child's voice; and if a foolish old gentleman is now and then seen haunting a nursery- maid, or a younger vagabond desecrating some alcove with the literature of St. Giles's, we are to comfort ourselves with hoping that the nursery-maid is laughing at the venerable Adonis, and that the vagabond, when he goes home, will get as many boxes on the ears for loitering by the way, as he has given causes of trouble to the sponge of the garden inspector. We must not expect to be too Paradisaical, even in Kensington Gardens.

The most affecting consideration suggested by places like these, is the one which calls to mind the past splendour and gaiety, the frivolity, the vice, and the virtue also, which


they have seen; all now gone into another world, to join the greatest of all publics, the public of the dead. Rather let us say, of the departed; for what do we know of the dead, except that the life has departed out of them ? The qualities which they evinced while living were more or less mixed up with their opposites; the gaiety with gloom, the frivolity with thoughtfulness (for did not all suffer?) the melancholy with mirth (for did not all enjoy ?) Even Lord Hervey thought he hated ingratitude and hypocrisy, and perhaps he did so, in others,thoughhe was not as alive to them as he ought to have been in his own person. Let us rest assured that the claims of the dead have been all since adjusted, and with final evil to no one; for as they were all created souls, they were all children of heaven as well as of earth. Such were they who have gone; such are


the like multitudes who are now living, and such will be those who succeed them. We may be quite content and happy, both with the past and the future of Kensington Palace and all around it, if we think of this, and at the same time cultivate our health and our natural cheerfulness, as all gardens, even formal ones, invite us to do.

The chief abiding thought in any garden is, or ought to be, a combined consciousness of the beauty of vegetation and the tranquillizing effect of quiet. This, we doubt not, is the reflection and the reward of those who frequent Kensington Gardens in general; and such of them as meet with this book will gladly see it finish with a quotation from a poet, who was one of the truest brother-lovers of gardens that ever lived, and also, as his friend Evelyn was here sometimes,


we have not the least doubt was a visitor; nay, would assuredly have visited them, whether his friend had or not; for nature was his still greater friend, and every plant (so strongly he loved it) a sort of fellow-creature. You see he cannot help addressing the trees in their respective social ranks, after the Tory fashion in which he was brought up; though no man was less of a party-man at heart than he, or wished better to the good and honest of all ranks and denominations.

" Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good, Hail, ye plebeian underwood, Where the poetick birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, Pay with their grateful voice. " Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature, the fairest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise, That can the fair and living trees neglect, Yet the dead timber prize. "Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds, above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be, myself too, mute. " A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamell'd bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, and hear How prettily they talk. " Ah, wretched and too solitary he, Who loves not his own company! He'll find the weight of't many a day, Unless he call in sin or vanity, To help to bear't away.

And again, in his Essay entitled "The


Garden," addressed to the friend above- mentioned :-

" Methinks I see great Diocletian walk In the Salonian garden's noble shade, Which by his own imperial hands was made. I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk With the ambassadors, who came in vain To entice him to a throne again. "'If I, my friends,' said he, 'should to you show All the delights which in these gardens grow, 'Tis likelier much that you should with me stay, Than 'tis that you should carry me away. And trust me not, my friends, if every day I walk not here with more delight, Than ever, after the most happy fight, In triumph to the Capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god.'"

THE END. LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH ST., LONDON. MARCH .