IN these days of express trains and rapid locomotion, it is almost surprising that walking still continues so fashionable an amusement. But even walking has altered, we were about to say, degenerated. It has become, like everything else, fast. During spring and summer hundreds of young men, armed with knapsacks and guide-books, disperse themselves over the country, walking frantically for four or five weeks, and return home with their boots worn out, their purses exhausted, and their heads full of old abbeys, ruined castles, peasant girls, and thirty miles a day. This is technically called taking a walking tour. Now we propose to gain all the advantages, without the discomforts of a pedestrian excursion. To admire scenery, to visit old buildings, full of historical memories, to peep into out-of-the-way corners,

Our title-page has already divulged the scene of our proposed exploits. But that title-page, like a German joke, requires explanation, and that explanation can, we think, be most fitly given in Kenna's Kingdom itself. Let, then, those who propose to be our fellow-ramblers betake themselves, bodily or mentally, to the capital of Her Brittanic Majesty's dominions, and once arrived there let them proceed westward (who, indeed, save some million or so of the lowest classes ever goes in the contrary direction?) until they reach the old Court Suburb, Kingly Kensington, where their fellow rambler is waiting for them at the south gate of the Gardens. Here we would ask our readers to step in, take a comfortable seat, say in the Flower Walk, and closing their eyes, allow themselves to drift backwards, backwards to that remote period when fairies gambolled on this island, a period

A little to the north of where the Palace now stands, rose the dazzling domes and towers of the proud palace of the elfin king Oberon. Clustering round the dwelling place of their monarch were the crowded streets and glittering spires of the capital of the fairy empire. Its inhabitants were more in number than the leaves of the trees which now flourish on the site of their city, while peers and princes from every portion of the Fairy state thronged hither to do homage to their sovereign. In the daytime the citizens slept, and at night trooped forth to plunder and frolic. Oberon had a beautiful daughter, heiress

The king of the mortals in England at this time was Albion, a monarch descended from old Neptune, the sovereign of the seas. It chanced one day that as Albion's wife and child lay sleeping in the palace, one of the most wily of Oberon's nymphs passed through the regal apartments, and at once bore off the unconscious infant in triumph. It became her object to

This was the youth for whom Kenna languished in her high palace, maiden modesty forbidding her to declare her love otherwise than by the silent language of her eyes. But Albion, for the young prince bore the name of his father, was not slow to read her downcast looks and blushes. His courtship shows how much in these last two thousand years we have degenerated in the art of love-making. Albion presented his mistress with dew-laden flowers, with ripe fruit, with glow-worms, and with wren's eggs, and such simple gifts found ready acceptance for the sake of him who gave. Now-a-days ladye-loves reckon the value of their valentines by the jewels which accompany the love-tokens, rather than by the verses inscribed on them. Albion even gave Kenna botany lessons, nor does the little love-sick maid seem to

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

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

* * * * * *

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.

Kensington then is Kenna's Kingdom; the 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

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 , join heartily with in entertaining his little nieces and nephews at Holly Lodge, sympathise with the little sick Duke of 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

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 Cheynes 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

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. 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

The whole of this property was valued at £10, and even if we make allowance for the relative worth of that sum in those days, this will not seem an extraordinary value for 1,200 acres. As the whole population of Middlesex was probably little more than 10,000, the cottages in the district must have been few and far between indeed; perhaps there was one better house, belonging to that Edwin who held the Manor in the time of Edward the Confessor. If so, even it would

So much, then, or rather, so little, for Kensington at the time of the Conquest.

At that time an important change occurred. Edwin the Theign suffered the fate of most Saxon noblemen. Perhaps he had led on his countrymen at Hastings. In that case Norman William seized his land at once. Perhaps he was ousted later, after the great rebellion in . Be that as it may, Doomsday Book, in , tells us that Aubrey de Vere held Kensington of the Bishop of Coutances. The De Veres thus became possessors of Kensington, and held it at first indirectly, and afterwards directly, of the Crown, uutil Norman and Saxon were fused into Englishmen, until the glorious English tongue revived by Chaucer, found its fullest expression in Shakespeare; then, and not till then, did Kensington pass from the hands of the Starry Veres. They were among the noblest and proudest of the old Norman aristocracy, a family noted for loyalty, yet not unmindful of liberty. Speaking of the twentieth and last of the old Earls of Oxford, writes :-" He derived his title, through an

The house of Vere can boast of many names well known in the annals of our country. One De Vere as we have seen was a companion of the Norman Conqueror William, and had commanded a portion of the invading army at Hastings. The first Earl, minister to Henry I., had been ennobled by both factions during the anarchy of Stephen's reign. One of them was among the eighteen barons, the leaders in obtaining Magna Charta from John, and his statue is to be seen in the House of Lords. They fought at Crecy Poitiers, and Agincourt, in the Holy Land, and in the Civil Wars of their own country. The ninth Earl was the unfortunate favourite of Richard II., and is the first Marquis known to the British peerage.

In the wars of the Roses, they joined the unfortunate Red Rose, and helped to seat Henry VII. on the English throne.

The last Earl with whom Kensington has to do, was

The defeat of the Red Rose at Barnet was, unintentionally, owing to a De Vere. John, the thirteenth Earl of Oxford, commanded the right wing of Warwick's army, and during the skirmish his badge, the star of the De Veres, being mistaken for the sun of York, he was attacked by his own party. There was a curious legend about this star; it was said to have dropped from heaven on the shield of a crusading De Vere. They had other devices too-a boar's head, a silver bottle, a chair, and an unknown object, which, to our unheraldic eye, looks very like a parish pump. Their punning motto, "Vero nihil verius," that is to say,-" Nothing truer than true or Vere," is as celebrated as their starry badge. It is said, however, that the name is to be traced to a very different source, and comes from the Dutch Veer, a dam. There are persons in England now of the name of Weir, who claim descent from the Earl of Oxford, so the name may have

The De Veres have left few memorials in the neighbourhood, only a local name here and there. There is an Aubrey Road, named, doubtless, in honour of Kensington's first possessor, which consists of a few quiet houses, that used to have a pretty view over Holland Park, till the evil fairy, Bricks-and-mortar, came, and, with a stroke of her wand, transformed a rustic pailing and oaks and May trees into masonry and ghostly poplars. The growth of Kensington during the time of the De Veres was but slow. The

It would be difficult to gain much insight into the doings of the good people who lived at Kensington then, but one or two little items have been preserved to us in the parish books. From them we learn that the parish could not have been very safe, as the roads were as dark as pitch at night, and we read of more than one murder committed in the neighbourhood about this time. Kensington seems, even then, to have been of a liberal turn, for there are entries of subscriptions for the French and Irish Protestants. The bells of the church were rung on the news of all the great victories, and in one case 15s. was paid for faggots and drink. Some entries are of a surprising nature: "money was paid for watching the trees in the churchyard on May-day, that they should not be cut," and to "theef ketchers, about enquiring who robbed the Church." Who the thief catchers were we cannot decide. Were they a species of private detectives, or an early edition of clairvoyants ? Fourpence was given for a truss of straw for a poor soldier, and sixpence was expended on an almanack and tape. The

It enjoyed almost uninterrupted royal patronage for about seventy years. This is the heyday of Kenna's kingdom, and during those couple of generations there is a rich harvest of names and association for ramblers like ourselves. Besides a constant supply of royalty at the Palace, we have William Penn, Addison, and the Foxes at ; the Duchess of Portsmouth at ; a host of celebrities, clerical, poetical, and social in the Square, where lodgings were almost unobtainable; the pathetic history of the young Duke of , at Campden House, besides a host of other memories. At Newton House, died Newton.

When the regal period proper closes, which it does

The story of leads us to the time of the Foxes and the literary gatherings, which give the mansion its greatest celebrity. The Palace still provides us with an occasional royal character, and the promenades in Kensington Gardens obtain their height. Smaller " lions " are numerous. " The " sights are the Palace and . Each of these will demand considerable attention. The Church and the other less important houses may be disposed of more rapidly. With the Kensington of to-day we have nothing to do. It has fine buildings and illustrious men, but the buildings want the ivy of antiquity, the glamour of historical associations, and as to the celebrities who reside in them, what in the case of the dead is anecdote in the case of the living is tittle-tattle.

If then we take the Palace as our starting point, we may, having thoroughly exhausted its historical curiosities, saunter through the gardens to Kensington Gore. Passing , , and Colby House, we shall find ourselves in the High Street. Thence we can pay a flying visit to Kensington and