whip, came to grief here through lashing very furiously a set of Friesland coach-horses which had been presented to him by the Duke of Holstein—an injudicious present the course of events proved them to be. Cromwell loved Hyde Park well; the stern-faced Protector visited it often; and now, when those of whom he dreamed not tread the turf he once trod, and make merry in the vicinity of that place in which he once proved himself such an inefficient Jehu, he lies quietly, and sleeps a deep sleep, hard by at Tyburn.

Back to the days when the reign of gloom was over and the tide of merriment had set in-to those days when Charles II. the merry monarch' with the melancholy face'-was king: who seems to have been as charming and reprehensible as most men who never say foolish things and never do wise ones areto the days when he was king and England was 'merry England,' as we are told so often that we have reason to doubt it.

That must have been a goodly company which assembled in Hyde Park then. Conspicuous in that bright ring of which Charles himself was the centre stands Villiers

foremost in beauty, bravery, wit, and gallantry, and every other dangerously fascinating quality

which goes to the making up of the character of the perfect courtier. That Villiers who is described by Flecknoe as possessing

'The gallant'st person and the noblest mind In all the world his prince could ever find;'

and who fell upon evil days and died after a long career of splendour and success in the worst inn's worst room,' where, according to Pope (although the story is now denied), tawdry yellow strove with dirty red.' That poor 'great Buckingham," whom a fastidious king pronounced to be the only English gentleman he had ever seen.' And with Villiers, the oval-faced and gleaming-eyed the gay, dashing lord and husband of the 'Puritan's daughter,' the 'little, short, brown, demure' lady, Mary Fairfax; the friend of Cowley, to whom at least,

whatever may have been his faults to others, he was faithful, generous, and kind; with him came De Grammont, the polished, graceful Frenchman, the lover, and after six years of uncertain courtship, the husband of that Miss Hamilton who was the greatest beauty in a court, where to be' was to be beautiful.

There was also St. Evremond, the blue-eyed Norman, most splendid specimen of a most magnificently handsome race, who at the age of fifty became the lover of Madame Mazarin. This lady, in addition to having the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in Europe of her day, took high honours as a practical joker. Amongst many other facetious tricks may be mentioned her swamping the poor nuns of a convent in which she had taken refuge once when in dire distress, in their uncomfortable beds. This feat she accomplished by causing the large reservoirs which supplied the establishment with water, to overflow. She also mixed ink with their holy water in order to make the cross stand out well upon their foreheads. This last trick was shocking, but harmless in comparison with the other; seclusion and rheumatism together must be intolerable.

And Rochester was here too-the 'most symmetrical and handsomest man of his age.' He joined that witty, wicked group, an innocent Adonis and fell away terribly. He confessed to Bishop Burnet on his death-bed that 'for five years he had never been sober.' But as I see him in the Ring,' walking along by the side of one of the daintiest of the court dames, he is young and fair and good, as he looks in the only portrait I have seen of him. The long love-locks are not dishevelled as yet, nor the deep clearcut eyes glazed, and the lower part of the face is still exquisitely refined-not heavy and coarse as it must have grown before those five years had come to an end.

And chivalrous, daring, happy Dorset was here; happy because he could do everything, and was never to blame. And fair, lovely, insipid Mrs. Hyde, of the light falling ring

lets and rather weak expression, which Sir Peter Lely has handed down to posterity for admiration. And the dark queen, with the small brown hands, and long-suffering spirits. Lovely, foolish Jane Middleton; the bright brunette, Miss Warmestre; and countless others, who were beauties' in their day, and had names and fames a trifle higher than would be awarded them now. They all came here to the Ring in Hyde Park.

And here, too, came one who has told us more about them and their doings than any one else. Here came Pepys-ever-present Samuel of course he did. Following the duke' (equally of course) into the Park, I found Mr. Coventry's people had a horse ready for me; so fine a one that I was almost afraid to get upon him, but I did, and found myself more feared than hurt."

Pepys would have risked breaking any number of bones to follow a duke,' the brave fellow! The act of mounting a great fine horse, of which he stood in mortal dread, for the pleasure of following the Duke of York into the Park and being seen in his company by the fine folks in the Ring, is worthy of the gallant gentleman who did extend his charity to his sister Jane by allowing her to be his servant;' and who lay in 'mighty trembling,' but cautiously passive one night, when he thought one of his domestics (possibly the aforesaid sister Jane) was being murdered in his house. Pepys, with something beneath him that he dared not hit, must have been a mighty fine sight' indeed; as fine as any in the Ring.

As far as personal appearance goes, Charles I. was far worthier of being the leader of such a bright, brilliant, beautiful court, than was his plain, dark-visaged son.

Here they all came, powdered and patched and hooped; with the everready sword and joke, and made love and witty speeches and quarrels after the most approved fashion of that gay and gallant set.

And now, as I stand here, the bevy of noble cavaliers and ladies my imagination has conjured up to people this now-deserted Park with,

fades away-fades away and leaves me standing cold and solitary in the wintry sunbeams, alone.

Far into the reigns of the Georges the Ring continued to be the preeminently fashionable portion of Hyde Park. William III. gave a certain tone to the Kensington division by going to reside in the redbricked palace there the palace which now has a deeper claim on our interest, for there our own queen was born. And Queen Caroline, consort of George II., added to the attractiveness of this quarter by causing large gardens to be laid out there, which were opened to the public-to the 'full-dressed' public -every Sunday, when the king and herself had betaken themselves to Richmond. When the court ceased to reside at Kensington these gardens were thrown open altogether. For a long time they retained much of their secluded character, but now every other portion of the Park will be thrown into the shade by them in point of gaiety.

Wandering along yet further from the sounds of busy life, the fleecy clouds-half-mist, half-smoke hovering over everything, show me other scenes and forms.

Here, in later days, came Hervey, the pleasing refined wit; and Pope, the cynical unpleasing one. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 'the emancipated,' who was allowed to say anything' (rare privilege!) without anything being said about her— who always dressed becomingly and untidily and attracted by so doing; and who, with a keen bright intellect, had but a 'neat-featured' face, which latter won the regard of both Hervey and Pope.

And those three Marys'-those 'maids of honour' about whom so much has been said and written; who have been the thread on which so many fine verses have been strung

Mary Lepell herself, Hervey's wife, who was good and charming, Mary Howard, and 'jolly' Mary Bellenden, as she is called.

The amiable king who dreaded being left alone the night his poor faithful loving wife died, for fear he should see a spirit,' came here and sighed that he could not instead

be breathing the air of his own beloved Hanover. And Caroline herself was by his side of course; with her fair, comely face, and gracious form, and winning sweet manner; that model wife who appears to have acted with such consistent, judicious humility all through her conjugal life. Before the king had cause to express that fear and dread, she came here with him frequently and planned improvements in Hyde Park.

And the Prince of Wales-their son-was here, but not with them. Sir Robert Walpole calls him a poor, weak, irresolute, false, lying, contemptible wretch;' and his own mother the fair comely queen, with the gracious manner, seems in his case to have taken leave of these her special qualities of 'gracious sweetness,' for she says: 'Popularity Popularity always make me sick, but Fritys makes me vomit.' The names Sir Robert Walpole called him must have been hard to bear, yet that sentence from his mother's lips was surely harder.

In the years between 1798 and 1816, Beau Brummel and his set adorned the Park. He came here frequently-did the kind beau-to show inferior beings how friendsold friends-and new coats should be cut. He was as perfect in these noble arts as was the friend of his early days, the Prince Regent, whose countenance he lost through an impertinence. Many mean, base, weak and worthless ones, I doubt not, take a turn in Hyde Park daily throughout the season, but surely none so weak, base, mean and worthless as this dethroned idol of what were called the 'Bucks as this man who spent half of every day in tying his cravat, and the other half in showing the world-his world-how it should be tied. He is not a pleasing object to contemplate through the fleecy clouds of time. Nothing worthier is recorded of him

-that I can recal than that he asked for damson jam tart' when little more than a baby; 'Who is your fat friend?' when full-grown; and several ridiculous questions as to cabbage and peas at different stages of his highly useful and orna

mental career. I see him dimly through the mists, standing by the visionary rails-not by any means leaning against them, that would have discomposed his attire-and hoping every one who passes will observe the number and gorgeousness of his waistcoats. I can forgive the man who would commit all sorts of extravagances in the way of point lace ruffles, and marooncoloured velvet coats, because they were beautiful and grand, and looked well then, and will continue to look well in pictures through all time. But the one who would ruin himself in table-cloths to wind around his throat, and several coloured waistcoats one over the other, and a blue coat with a velvet collar half hiding his head, and the waist indicated by two brass buttons up between his shoulders, is simply despicable.

And now, as I wander further south on towards those quieter Kensington regions-the gray mist seems to clear away. The trees burst forth into leaf. The sun shines fully, gloriously over everything, and somewhere high in the upper air an invisible lark is pouring forth a wild sweet melody. It is the summer season of 1861, and here are assembled representatives of all classes-of 'all' save the 'stout peasantry' of England, who with quilted smocks,' and heavy, weather-reddened complexions, have no call, find no place here. Poverty and wretchedness come here often enough to look at their betters, but it is not 'rural' poverty and wretchedness.

Here comes the world-famed minister, the wise and witty statesman on whom the years that he has passed in the public service tell so slightly to all outward seeming; who holds with equal judgment and skill the reins of government and those which restrain the eager footsteps of a fine-drawn high-couraged Irish mare. The author, favourite of fortune and fashion. The artist, seeking as he leans idly over those rails for a face fairer than his ideal, with which to delight the world next year at the Academy. The beauty, whose roses are paled a

little, and whose eye is less bright than it is well the eye of beauty on promotion should be, through a little over-dancing and over-fagging generally on the great social treadmill. She is still fresh and lovely enough though as she sits 'well back on her thorough-bred, perfectly-trained horse-who although his mouth is of the finest 'pulls' ever so slightly-just enough to steady her in fact as she holds him with the light, firm hand a good horsewoman always possesses, raising a murmur of admiration on the lips of those who do not know her, and a deeper feeling it may be in the hearts of those who do;-surely, as that fairy on the chestnut-the little chestnut with the white offfore-leg and the white star on his forehead-passes, the young artist who only wants a subject might be satisfied. She has rich wavy hair

-this lady on the chestnut, hair of a light, golden-tinted brown-something like her horse's-with a long undulating wave in it; not kinked up and down in abrupt hillocks, as if it had been plaited up tight overnight to its own destruction, but just undulating gracefully in long waves. She has a broad fair brow. From underneath the brim of her little Spanish hat look out a pair of deep blue, stedfast eyes,-' grave' at most times, but lighting up with flashes of merriment as she speaks to the pretty little sister who rides by her side. The blue eyes are shaded by wonderful lashes— long and dark and heavy, like a silk fringe; and these latter have somewhat of a haughty droop as she bends in return for the frequently doffed hat. She is but seventeen; but she is tall and stately,' and a fair sight she is, that young patrician, as she sits there, going along so easily yet so firmly that her little chestnut would find it a hard matter to shake her in the saddle, should he be so minded.

The elderly gentleman, who dreamed not in his youth of the partnership in the house in which he was then toiling as a clerk; and a stately mansion in one of the stateliest of the Regent's Park terraces; and a stately wife, who, when

she steps from the well-built carriage, horsed by a pair of browns, looks as if she had been all her life a duchess at least; and daughters who are pretty and accomplished, and well-dressed and well-bred, and capable of holding their own should the course of events roll them yet higher; and a well-bound library, containing all the right books and none of the wrong ones, in splendid preservation; and curious old port, and a place in the country;—who dreamed not, I say, that all this would ever be his, comes pounding over the spongy ground, at a brisk trot on a sturdy cob, very wide between the ears, and broad of chest, and short of leg; not a beautiful horse, but a safe and good one; one who would no more back or shy, or do anything foolish, than his master. Behind him comes his pad-groom, on a fine, handsome, showy bay, with black points, and a martingale, and a prance.

Far different in appearance is the other elderly gentleman who follows close upon the heels of the sturdy cob. He has been riding from the time he was three years old, when he commenced on the great-grandmother of the little black pony his grandson is now careering on by his side. When the rider of the cob was having his little private battle with life in the countinghouse, this one was probably following the hounds three times a week across a stiff bit of country. He is mounted now on a horse with a pedigree as long as his own; amiably as he walks along, suffering himself to be perpetually passed without exhibiting the least trace of emotion, he would, if put to it, 'fly the heads' both of the other old gentleman and the groom on the fidgety, prancing steed.

The group that comes rushing by now is a fine one-three young ladies, a brother, and one or two of the brother's friends. They converse as freely as they ride alongthe ladies at a hard canter, which very much resembles a gallop, and the gentlemen at a long slinging trot-as if they were walking slowly along on the promenade out yonder. They never lose their breath, nor

catch it; they never swerve in their saddles; they never jerk either their reins or their words. If their horses 'lost their heads,' they would not, for they have been riding all their lives and know what it means. There are dozens, hundreds, like them here daily.

The lady-the stout lady-who passes along now, offers a fine contrast to the spirited group I have attempted to portray. She has come into a fortune late in life and has, on the strength of it, commenced equestrian exercise. She protests that she thinks riding delightful,' but she passes a horrible time up there on that horse, who will keep dragging the reins out of her unaccustomed hands. He shakes her, too, cruelly, for they cannot time their rises together, and she loses her breath, and pants forth involuntary notes of interrogation at every step. And now a troop of children pass her as fast as their little steeds can lay their legs to the ground, and her horse foolishly thinks he would like to do the same; so he starts off suddenly, which sends her forward in a helpless heap on his neck; and then, the absurdity of the thing striking him, he stops even more suddenly, and bumps her in the chest. She has gone to expense as to habit and hat, and whip and gloves, but I fear the investment is a bad one. She is a

braver-not to say a more foolishwoman, than she looks, if she ever makes the ascent of a horse's back after that bump.

One of the greatest charms about riding is, that you rarely meet with an instance of glaring bad taste in point of costume. Ladies are not allowed much scope, certainly, and the result is harmonious and pleasing. There are some very fewwho will persist in wearing a scarf, or veil, or feather, which will of course fly and look odious; but, as a rule, the habit ends at the throat in a small white collar, and at the waist in a little six-inch basque or jockey. Altogether, the riding-habit, well made and without even a button more than is necessary about it, is, without any exception, the prettiest costume in the world.

Taken in conjunction with a wellshaped and by all means small, hat, and white gauntlets, if in the country-dark short kids if in town-it is nearly perfection.

But the glories of Rotten Row, attractive as they are, must not be allowed entirely to overshadow the claims of the drive and promenade.

Here, through the hot hours of this summer afternoon, I stand and watch an almost unbroken line of well-appointed carriages and matchless horses.

The mail phaeton, driven by one who would in other days have taken high honours on the road.' The heavy chariot, with its gorgeous hammer-cloth and severe-looking driver and magnificent footmen; with its rather hearse-like horses and pretty occupants-an aristocratic mamma, and three or four pretty, fair-haired children. The phaeton of the lovely bride- a countess-drawn by a pair of ponies fourteen hands high, and matched to a hair: she drives them herself, and the whole turn-out causes seas of envy and admiration to ebb through the hearts of her old friends the yet expectant ones, who are still sitting in the parental coach-which is magnificent, and heavy, and comfortable- and from which they would gladly step into a small park phaeton, with a pair of ponies fourteen hands high, and matched to a hair.' The waggonette, and every possible description of bodies upon wheels, are here in endless number.

The promenade is, after all, perhaps the gayest and most glittering portion of this gay and glittering Park.

Pretty, elegant, well-dressed women are always a delightful spectacle, and here they are in such force.

How dresses so light, so web-like, can ever have been got together and persuaded to remain together, is wonderful. Colossal cobwebs, they bear down hazily upon you on every side. So fragile are they, that as they trail in orthodox fashion half a yard on the ground behind their bearers, you sympathize with them as with a bruised butterfly's wing.