pleasant shades of Wimbledon Park. The railway company will obligingly take him back to Charing Cross, where he ought to have alighted for Covent Garden; and he might be grateful, but is not, for the chance that has been given him of a sight of green country, and a breath of fresh, pure air. But we have had other passengers during the transit-flower-girls with baskets of roses, with market-bunches of mignonette and ferns, which they are deftly arranging into bouquets and "button-holes" on their way. There are workmen with their bags of tools; plumbers bound for suburban residences, where something is wrong with gas or water; errand-boys with big wallets and well-thumbed memorandum-books; women with mysterious bundles. For when the great rush of morning hours is over, all kinds of little eddies and currents of small traffic set in. And so the train burrows beneath the great City with all the roar and traffic of its streets but faintly realised, and by Charing Cross and Westminster in the dim underground daylight; and South Kensington appears, with its note of museums and its memories of exhibitions, vanished like the snows of long ago; and then we come into a broad ray of bright sunshine at Earl's Court.

People, by the way, take Earl's Court for granted; and not one in a hundred thousand who travels that way troubles him or herself to ask who was the Earl, and where his Court, that gave a name to this region of commodious flats and eligible family mansions. Yet were it not for houses, and smoke, and steam, and other obstructions, we might get a glimpse of the hill with its pleasant shades,

Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace,

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race. The antique structures being no other than Holland House, antique even in Addison's days, when he lived there with his wife, the widowed Countess of Warwick, and still unaltered in its outward features. And the bold chiefs referred to by the poet were not of the famous old line, but descended from a Chancellor Rich, according to that amiable biographer, Lord Campbell, "a very consistent character in all that was base and profligate." And the "chief," who gave his name to the court, was Henry, the first Earl of Holland, whose descendants inherited the title of Warwick, while between this Henry, Lord of the Hill at Kensington, and Henrietta, Lady of the Hill at Wimbledon, there was

sufficient connection to make an excuse for thus lingering by the way.

Our train for Wimbledon has not afforded much time for this dissertation; but, taking a wide sweep, brings us round to Parson's Green, still green and pleasant,' with relics here and there of the comely red-brick houses of other days. And at the Green we take in a contingent of cricketers in white flannels, with long bags containing their cricketing apparatus. The "Green" is going to play the "Fields," and there is quite a cheerful country note about this that reconciles one to the crowds of new houses that are springing up about old-fashioned Fulham, with its red roofs and grey church tower backed by the Bishop's green and shaded groves. The old Pottery is there still, anyhow, with its rows of pots upon the parapets. And the river, bank high, throws a bright gleam upon us; we catch a passing glimpse through a bewildering network of girders of new Putney Bridge, with its handsome granite arches. Then we have a new Putney, which differs not much in longitude from old Putney, but which discloses a new town with rows of streets and shops that promise to join hands with Wandsworth ere long, and then we are among green fields and suburban country, as we reach a station called Southfields, where our cricketers alight, received with hospitable shouts by their rivals.

So far all has been foreseen and familiar; but now the romance of the journey begins. It ends quickly, too. But there it is for the moment, a fragment of charming landscape, rich with all the associations of a chequered history.

The scene we behold from the windows of our underground railway-carriage is altogether a surprise, a lovely rural prospect, shut in with woods, and full of a quiet charm and dignity, with the repose and peace of a long-secluded ancestral domain.

In the foreground is a happy little lake, which shines like molten silver, and reflects the verdure, the trees, the azure of the skies. In the midst floats a swan, pure white. There is an old boat-house, and a skiff is moored by the shore. Above, with a sweep of green glade and tufted bank, rises a hill crowned with hanging woods, and a church spire rises from among the trees.

And this is Wimbledon Park, an undiscovered region to most Londoners; once a Royal seat, and now parcelled out in

lots for building. New roads are to be seen here and there, "before they are made," and rows of houses, perhaps of shops also, will, in the course of time, shut out this beautiful prospect from the traveller from Whitechapel. All is not rural calm here even now. Further on, we get a glimpse of the valley of the Wandle, with a suspicion of factory chimneys and a view of long lines of dwellings stretching out into a smoky haze But again the country closes in upon us, and, at Wimbledon Park Station, a perfect stillness seems to reign.

At the very door of the station we strike into a rough path that leads up to the side of a hill. Two comely sunburnt dames are toiling up the slope, with little flaxenhaired children clinging to their skirts, and, at the top of the hill, is a wild little copse, where birds are twittering and children are scattered about busily gathering blackberries. Beyond the wood a newly-formed road leads along the crest of the hill, with a fine stretch of country spread out to view all round.

The Crystal Palace sparkles yonder in the sunshine, with the heights of Norwood darkened in the shadow of a cloud. There are Banstead Downs all in dreamy outline, and dim suggestions of more distant hills, with woods and pastures lying below. And so the prospect stretches out from Epsom away to Kingston. Yet we are still in Wimbledon Park. There were twelve hundred acres of it altogether, and we may wander for long distances without quitting its limits. Here and there we may come upon a noble oak that a Cecil, perhaps, dropped the original acorn of, gathered, may hap, from one of those noble trees of Hatfield which, in Elizabeth's time, were in the height of their glory. And close by the noble oak you may find a board announcing building land for sale, with a suggestion of its adaptability for shop frontages. And, in a field beyond, the ploughman with his team is driving a furrow, where the plough-share glitters in the moist, clinging soil. There might be pheasants, you would think, in yonder copɛe, and the lay of the country suggests a fox stealing away beyond and hounds feathering among the bracken. And in the midst of it all appears the white steam of a train, and the underground train from Whitechapel steals past in the quiet, undemonstrative way it has acquired among the London streets.

As for this Wimbledon Park, which, if it has

lost its seclusion, has anyhow become acces sible to all the world, its history is mainly that of the Manor which formerly went with it. And that was from time immemorial the property of the Church of Canterbury, although some of its ancient customs seem to point to a time when its tenants may have "followed to the field some warlike lord." For there was a heriot at the death of a tenant, when his heirs must deliver up his best horse, saddle, bridle, spear, sword, boots, spurs, and armour. And those were not articles that an Archbishop should have coveted. Then, the fine that was paid by the heir for every fifteen acres was "one blacke sheepe or tenpence in money," and the black sheep has a very heathenish look about it. The custom, too, of Borough English prevailed in the Manor, that is to say, the youngest was heir instead of the eldest; and all these things have a pleasant archaic flavour about them, and go to show that our Wimbledon was settled by a different race and had different manners from the surrounding population.

But, except for these curious customs, there was little noteworthy in the history of Wimbledon during the tranquil rule of the ecclesiastics. When Cranmer transferred it to Henry the Eighth, in exchange for other lands, Wimbledon began to be noteworthy. Henry gave it to Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Wolsey's former protégé, who was a native of neighbouring Putney, and the son of a blacksmith, or, more probably, of an iron-master there; the Cromwells having, at that time, been persons of means and consideration in the neighbourhood. When Cromwell lost his estates and head, the manor reverted to the Crown, and was granted to Queen Catherine Parr for life. That life was not a long one, and, at Catherine's death, Queen Mary bestowed the estate on Cardinal Pole, who only survived his Royal kinswoman a few days. Then Queen Elizabeth had it, and sold the Manor House and Park to my Lord Keeper Hatton, one of the salient figures of that brilliant period. But Sir Christopher, having bought and built too largely, was obliged to part with Wimbledon Park to Sir Thomas Cecil, the eldest son of Lord Burleigh, of the sagacious nod, and afterwards Earl of Exeter. And in the old Manor House Cecil entertained Queen Elizabeth, who passed through on her way to Nonsuch Palace, near Ewell, when the churchwardens of Wimbledon expended twenty pence on mending the wayes between the two places. The Earl

at St. Neots, in Huntingdonshire, Lord Holland among the number. And a few months after the execution of the King, Lord Holland met his fate manfully enough, in white satin doublet and cap with silver lace, on the scaffold, in Palace Yard.

With this tragedy comes decadence upon Wimbledon Hall. Commissioners descended upon the place and surveyed it for sale; but even the stern Puritans seemed touched with its grace and beauty: "The site very pleasant; the rooms richly adorned, very commodious and fit for present use; the ayre sweet and open; the church and market near."

Presently the whole was sold, and shortly after General Lambert entered into possession. He, too, was a man of taste and refinement, with ambition that would make a palace of his new dwelling. But his star paled before that of Cromwell, and he consoled himself with the beautiful gardens, about which the memory of the Queen still lingered. He cultivated tulips and gillyflowers, anticipating more modern crazes. He was a skilful flower painter, too, and adorned the house with his canvases.

Then came the Restoration, and Henrietta was once more in possession of her old pleasure-house. But what restoration was there for one faded, worn, and weary with intrigues and disappointments? The place, with its memories, was almost hateful to her now, and she sold it to the Earl of Bristol.

After the Earl's death, Osborne, afterwards Duke of Leeds, bought the place, and his executors sold it to one Sir Theodore Janssen, a South Sea director. The man of wealth pulled down the mansion that Cecil had built and Queen Henrietta adorned, and began to build a new one. Then, in 1720, the bubble burst, and all the ruined gamblers fastened upon those who still had money, and the estates of the directors were confiscated by Act of Parliament.

Sarah of Marlborough bought the estate, and scattered to the four winds Janssen's plans and foundations. She built a house on the north side of the knoll, did not like it, and pulled it down. Built another on the south side; did not like that either, but let it stand; and finally bequeathed the whole estate to John Spencer, her grandson, whose descendants were ennobled as Earls Spencer. Sarah's house was burnt down in 1785, and the site stood vacant till 1798, when

But

the present existing house was built-an affair of no great architectural pretensions. In 1846 the Spencers sold the Park and Hall, but retained the Manor, of which Earl Spencer is still the lord.

Since then, Wimbledon Park has been gradually converted into building lots; but as this process has gone on gradually, and the new houses lie pretty well hidden by foliage in their own grounds, many of the most pleasing features of the old Park are still retained.

Where the Park ends the Common begins that breezy common, still wild and unconventional, with thickets and dells, and wildernesses of bracken, while, from its broken edge, a sweet woodland prospect opens out. There is a fine stretch of heath all the way from Putney, and in the Bottom, where was once the "Bald-faced Stag"-now nursery groundstood the gibbet, where once dangled the bones of the famous Jerry Abershaw, the terror of travellers along the well-worn Kingston Road. And then we have the old windmill, still retained as a picturesque accessory, although relieved from active service; and close by is the tall flagstaff which serves as a reminder of the volunteer camp, and of the cottage lately its headquarters. The butts, too, have a solemn and gloomy aspect in the distance, as if they were so many entrenchments of the giants of old. It is this Putney side of the heath that was once a favourite scene for duels. Here the Duke of York met Colonel Lennox in 1789. The Duke had grossly insulted the Colonel on the Guards' parade, and refused to retract, but intimated that he waived his immunities as Royal Prince and commanding officer. The stout Duke, in his brown coat, received the fire of Colonel Lennox, but would not return it. The Colonel might blaze away at him if he pleased, but the Duke would not throw away a word or a bullet upon him. And when the Colonel declined to make a target of his Royal antagonist, the Duke marched contemptuously away. The Colonel lived to be Duke of Richmond, and died at last, when Governor-General of Canada, of the bite of a little pet dog.

Then Pitt and Tierney fought a duel here, close to where then stood Jerry Abershaw's gibbet. It was fought on a Sunday, too, a fact which shocked the proprieties of the time. Then, in 1807, Sir Francis Burdett met John Paull, when both were slightly wounded. Still more noted was the duel between Castle

reagh and Canning, who fought out a Cabinet quarrel on the heath near Putney, when Canning received a trifling wound. More desperate was the encounter between George Payne and Mr. Clarke in 1810, the latter avenging his sister's honour, and lodging a bullet in the body of her seducer, of which wound unhappy Mr. Payne died two days after at the "Red Lion " Inn.

In aristocratic England to kill one's friend in a duel had always been regarded as an exclusive caste privilege; and when tradespeople affected to have notions of honour, it was felt that it was time for gentlemen to abstain from an unfashionable practice. And thus the duel of Elliot and Mirfin, the latter a draper, fought on Wimbledon Heath in 1838, did much to bring duelling into disrepute. Yet, in the following year, an old-fashioned duel was fought between the Marquis of Londonderry and Henry Grattan; and in 1840 a distinguished exile, Louis Napoléon, with Count D'Orsay as his second, appeared upon the ground to meet Count Léon in mortal combat. But some one had sent for the police. The duel was stopped, and the intending combatants bound over to keep the peace. The last serious duel fought upon this classic spot was between the Earl of Cardigan and Captain Harvey Tuckett, arising out of the former's overbearing tyranny as commanding officer of the Eleventh Hussars. The Captain was seriously wounded, and Lord Cardigan was put on his trial, but escaped by a flaw in the indictment, and was warmly congratulated thereupon by Lord Denman, the presiding Judge.

And now, to leave the scene of these single combats, and to seek the relics of ancient warfare, we must make our way to "Cæsar's Camp," not very easy to be found by a casual pedestrian. First of all, in an ordinary way, Wimbledon Common is a rather lonely spot. You may descry in the distance a party of golf-players with their clubs and irons and attendant caddies. But they are soon out of sight in pursuit of the little white balls. And a pair of lovers, on horseback, clearly are unapproachable. An elderly gentleman, calmly reading in the midst of solitude, whose newspaper has shone as a bright spot in the dun-coloured heath, has heard of Cæsar's Camp, and vaguely declares it is "somewhere over there." A workman, passing across the scene, pauses to reply: Cæsar's Camp-Camp? Bless you, that's

all over now!" A veteran, smoking his pipe in a hollow, has no knowledge of Cæsar's Camp; but there is Cæsar's Well right over yonder; and the well is not far from the Camp, as the big ordnance plan, previously consulted, has shown. A little girl, in charge of a still smaller infant, proves the most intelligent guide. "The well's right behind the Queen's butt;" and that is a sufficiently good landmark, being the biggest and most massive of all those respectable earthworks.

And, indeed, the well is a place of general resort, and attracts little knots of pilgrims from all sides, who picnic in the little thicket about it, and quench their thirst in the pellucid well. It is a spring bright, and clear, and strong, and supplies a little burn that runs along the dell. There is no brighter, sunnier spot anywhere than this dell, and, looked at from below, it appears as a horseshoe-shaped hollow, with a regular, defined edge, that probably represents the defensive bank of earth that once surrounded it. It is the very place for the refuge of a pastoral tribe, with a copious spring at the head of it, defended by woods and morasses, and answering exactly, as it seems, to Cæsar's description of the "capital town of Cassivellaunus."

Here ran the little burn between the booths and huts of the Britons; and here, perhaps, may Caзar have rested after the fight, weary and thirsty with the toil of the day, while some eager soldier brought him a cup of water from the crystal spring.

It is certainly curious that while, by common consent, the name of Cæsar is applied to the well, yet that it is not locally known in connection with the fine circular entrenchment that lies some little distance to the westward of the well. For that people call the Rounds, a name appropriate enough, as it consists of two great concentric banks of earth, with a hollow way between. If intended for a defensive camp, it is difficult to see the purpose of the outer rampart, which, unprotected by any ditch, seems rather an advantage than an obstacle to an assailant. But it may not have been a camp at all, but a temple, a place of sacrifice, and of assemblage too. Whatever its object may have been, the site of the entrenchment is a fine one. It seems to be the most commanding point in the neighbourhood, and from its ramparts a fine and extensive view is to be had of the country round about, with towns and villages scattered about, and common,