and at the portrait of Charles, and remembering what were the lives of the originals, who, Monsieur Jules, would wish to be a king or a queen? Had that grave, careworn man, and this beautiful woman, been only Mr. and Mrs. Charles Stuart, how much more happily they might have lived; and, in one instance at least, how much less miserably they might have died!

Monsieur Jules replies to my eloquent apostrophe by a few republican sentiments, of the reddest possible hue, on the subject of kings and queens in general. I try to divert him from politics to painting, by pointing out some copies from Vandyck, by Lely and Phillips, and some more portraits (certainly of no very extraordinary merit), in the next room we enter. But my efforts are of no avail. The pictures around us are not of first-class interest, so Monsieur Jules will have nothing to say to them; he is a Frenchman, he is talking about governments, nothing can stop him. We get into the library, a beautiful room, with a magnificent view from the windows-and still "liberty, equality, fraternity," the organization of labour, and the annihilation of the rights of property, are the texts of his discourse. At last, in despair, I point through the windows to the blue bright stream of the Thames, to the waving trees, to the fresh green meadows. "For heaven's sake, my dear friend, let us have done with politics, and take a walk in those magnificent grounds: government cannot poison those fresh breezes, or spoil that beautiful landscape, so let governments alone, for the present, at least! If you will not, I vow solemnly that I will begin one of those historical dissertations on the sixteenth century,' and 'the Spanish branch of the house of Austria,' which you held in such horror at Northumberland House!"-" Enough, enough!" cries Monsieur Jules, receiving my last threat with an expression of the liveliest apprehension. "I am dumb on the subject of politics! the gardens, the charming gardens by all means! Allons! vive la campagne!

On the gravel walk before the house appears an admirable substitute for the usual infliction of guides, in the shape of a neat sign-post, bearing on it an inscription to direct the steps of strangers, in the English, French, and German languages. This sign-post reappears at intervals, in different parts of the walks, pointing the way to every succeeding object of interest, so as to lead the visitor easily through the grounds, from one extremity to the other. A pleasanter plan of introduction to the gardens at Syon House could not have been adopted.

Our first place of destination is the Conservatory. We walk along winding paths, overshadowed by noble trees, and bounded on either side by lawns, flower-beds, and clustering verdure, until we reach a circular open space of considerable extent, covered with rose-trees in blossom, here and there intermixed with brilliant patches of geranium. The effect of this mass of exquisite colours, seen under a glorious afternoon sunlight, and terminated only by the lofty glass structure of the conservatory, is indescribably lovely. It is a garden scene that looks almost worthy of the garden of Eden itself—it is the very poetry of form and colour! Going on into the conservatory, Monsieur Jules and I mutually regret our ignorance of botanical science. We can only admire, as artists, the shapes, the beautiful green hues, and the picturesque arrangement of the plants around us. Leaves in every perfection of elegant and various form, are festooned over our heads in natural canopies that the wood-nymphs of old might have loved to sleep under; and the

scene reaches its climax of attraction, when we get to the cupola in the middle of the conservatory, and see the luxuriant vegetation on all sides topped by an eastern palm-tree in full vigour and beauty of growth. When leaving as when entering this charming place, we find statues of children-one representing Repose, the other Actionplaced within each doorway; the white marble of which they are composed deriving a double purity from the verdure that clusters around and above it.

On quitting the conservatory, we take a farewell glance at the garden. The visitors to Syon House are threading in all directions the paths that lead among the flowers. Look, Monsieur Jules, at the ladies' dresses! I protest the fairer portion of the human family rival the roses and geraniums, and flit about among the flowers gayer than butterflies themselves! Heavens to what a pitch of luxury and magnificence have the dresses of the mothers and daughters (to say nothing of the grandmothers) of England arrived! How do husbands and fathers manage to pay for it all? Oh, my friend, if poor bachelors like you and me, who paint and write for our bread, ever enter the holy estate of matrimony, how much of the inestimable value of your pictures and my books will be represented by the mantillas and parasols of our attached wives and our dutiful girls! Oh, ye mercers and milliners! serpent-like do ye tempt the daughters of Eve-serpent-like do ye glide into the breeches-pockets of the sons of Adam!

But what have we here? Another sign-post, directing us on our way to the tropical conservatory. Let us go at once; the gardens are shut at six o'clock, and we have not too much time to spare.

After stopping to admire some beautiful specimens of the "Victoria Regia," we reach the tropical plants. Here the vegetation is of a wilder and more striking character, than in the former conservatory. Leaves of strange, twining, mysterious shapes appear on all sides. Among the vegetables, we especially notice the "Snake Gourd," the fruit of which hangs from the long slender branches, in shape and size exactly like a spotted green snake. There is a large sensitive plant here, too, the peculiar qualities of which are tried by so many visitors' fingers, that it is a wonder all the sensitiveness of the leaves has not evaporated long ago, from sheer exhaustion. Returning from the tropical conservatory, another sign-post obligingly informs us what path to take in order to gain the pleasure-grounds; and thither we bend our steps accordingly.

Pleasure grounds indeed! This portion of the gardens amply deserves its name. Soft, shady turf to lie down on-walks ever winding in and out among the thickly-growing trees and the flowering shrubswater that lies still and clear below sloping turf banks; here deep green with the reflections of the branches arching over, or dipping into it— there hidden altogether from the sight by floating lilies in full bloom— glimpses of distant view, over the meadow-land and down the avenue— flower beds, fragrant to smell and brilliant to look on, that meet you unawares, as you proceed,-such are the allurements of nature and art that now invite us to linger among the pleasure grounds of Syon House. Allow me to remark, Monsieur Jules, with just and natural pride, that you have nothing like this in the whole of France. That you are far beyond us in some other achievements of taste, I willingly and humbly admit; but in landscape-gardening we are still infinitely your superiors.

You may shake your head, and shrug your shoulders, and elevate your eyebrows, as much as you please; but you must confess that I am right. What are your famous grounds at Versailles? A wilderness, composed of rows of comfortless walks and regiments of stiff trees. What are the gardens of your country-seats? Shelterless, slovenly, little deserts, where the grass looks always withered, and the flowers seem always out of place. What ?" "What is your street architecture?" shouts Monsieur Jules, triumphantly interrupting me-" What is the interior of St. Paul's Cathedral? What is the National Picture Gallery? What are the Methodist Chapels? What sort of boots, brandy, gloves, velvet, coffee, operas, salads, dancing-masters, does your nation produce? Shall I answer, and crush for ever the arrogance of Albion, as impersonated by my friend?"—" Certainly not, Monsieur Jules! You have had your revenge already-let us maintain the entente cordiale by dropping the subject; and proceed at once to the River Terrace, the last object in the grounds that we have now left to see."

We pass the house, and proceed towards the Thames, which runs at but a short distance from it. The Terrace is parallel with the bank, and is terminated by a charming summer-house divided into three rooms. The walls of the little building are washed by the river; its balconies overhang the rapid current. From the seats placed here, we look up and down over the bright glancing water-trees and meadows, pleasantly intermingled, occupy the opposite bank-pleasure-boats are out on the river, the oars of the rowers gleaming like silver in the sunlight-the low, musical rustling of leaves murmurs around us-the breeze is cool, pure, and fragrant with sweet odours. Oh, my friend, what a bower of bliss to make love in, to smoke a pipe in, to read a novel in, to drink claret in, to go to sleep in! If it were not unlawful to covet my neighbour's summer-house, how I should like to be the possessor of this delightful place, and write pastoral poetry (with a fair shepherdess for my housekeeper) all the rest of my days!

Finding that my pastoral sentiments fail to affect the sympathies of my French friend, who prefers the Rue Richelieu to a summer-house by the river-side, and likes grisettes better than shepherdesses, I reluctantly look at my watch, find that it is near six o'clock, and that it is therefore time to go. We leave the lovely grounds of Syon House, grateful for the privilege of seeing them; and get back to London forthwith-passing the Crystal Palace, just as the loud bells and gongs are sounding beneath the shining glass for the exit of all the visitors. Before we separate, it is resolved that our next visit shall be to the Dulwich Gallery, where Monsieur Jules may feel assured of finding enough to satisfy even his devouring appetite for fine pictures to the fullest possible extent.

STONEY BATTER'S GHOST.

A LEGEND OF BLIGHTED HOLLOW.

On the side of one of those rolling downs, so characteristic of the chalk formation of the Dorset coast, there is a deep and circular hollow, so perfect in its form, that, but for its vast size, it would seem to be the work of man. With the help of a little imagination, rude benches or galleries may be traced, at regular intervals, apparently hewn out of the solid chalk. Tier above tier they rise, running all round the vast amphitheatre, and commencing, singularly enough, just at that distance from the bottom as would best leave a large arena for the performance of some single combat, or grand ceremonious rite. Like the "Devil's Punch Bowl," near Portsmouth, the "Hospital Field" at Dover, and "Fan Bay," near the South Foreland, all deep and circular hollows in a chalk formation, it has its popular tale, its scientific hypothesis, and mystic legend.

Fortunately for "Blighted" or " Ghastly Hollow," for it is called by either title, it has undergone a rigid examination from time to time, both by local and erratic antiquaries, and however they may differ on minor points, they seem to be pretty unanimous that the Druids had something to do with the hole in question. Luckily, for their theory, there are five mysterious-looking stones, rather larger than common, suspiciously lurking about the place, and as nobody can give any satisfactory account from whence they came, they are concluded to be the remains of a Druid temple. And, to speak the truth, they are upright, lanky-looking objects, and of different material to any stones in the locality, and certainly do appear to have no business there. Besides, they would look more natural if they were lying prone on the earth, agreeably to the laws of gravitation, like other stones, instead of standing perpendicular, and slantingdicular as if rained from heaven, points downward. However, as there is a good honest statute acre of turf between each block, and being only five in number, it must be admitted that it requires a prolific imagination to fill up the interspace with the requisite materials for the construction of even that piece of open work, a Druid temple. But zealous antiquaries can account for many things, and, to confirm their tale, tradition points to an excavation în one of these stones in which the blood of human victims is presumed to have been formerly caught, and they even indicate the route along which the skin-clad British warrior once hurried to perform his sanguinary and secret rites.

As may be supposed, the popular account of Blighted Hollow is somewhat at variance with the above, inasmuch, as it utterly scouts the antiquarian hypothesis, and puts no faith in Druids. However, it must be confessed, when the popular mind gets itself into a fix, it has no scruples how it helps itself out of the difficulty. Thus the popular mind in Dorset maintains that as the mysterious stones are too big to be "hefted" about by human means, that they must have fallen from heaven, and, as a proof of this statement being true, defies you to find a stone of a similar grain on earth. And then as to Blighted Hollow, why everybody knows how that was done: "Didn't their fathers tell

them, and, of course, their fathers' fathers received the precious tale from equally intelligent generations before them, that the devil once gave a grand feast upon the Down, and being in want of a punch-bowl, he scanted out Blighted Hollow with one stroke of his hoof, and ever since that occurrence, it has been noted for its ghastly and withered aspect, and for producing the best lime in the world." This circumstantial account settles the matter at once, and leaves us no choice between the antiquarian hypothesis and the popular legend, even if the common susceptibilities of our nature to the charms of romance had not induced us beforehand to pin our faith to the latter.

It is into this Blighted Hollow that we wish to lead the imagination of the reader, not for the purpose of showing the footprints of the devil, or the fragments of a Druid temple, but to draw his attention to a huge lime-kiln at the bottom, as it sends up its pale, yellow, sulphureous, vapours in long spiral wreaths, and imparting to the spot the dry hot arid character of a slumbering volcano. Every object, above, below, and round about, whether bush or bramble, is white; the long, coarse, husky grass, is loaded with an unsightly powder; the choughs and crows, as they occasionally fly into the unhallowed spot, become dusted with the same pallid hue, and the lime, mixing with their black coats, gives them an appearance of being in half-mourning. Even the three. men who are sitting huddled round the brim of the huge lime-kiln, look more like gnomes or spectres than human beings made of wholesome flesh and blood. However, they are smoking, drinking, and chattering merrily, and occasionally bursting out into fits of boisterous laughter, peculiar to rude health, hard work, and strong beer, acting upon the thirsty souls of lime-burners.

"Hooray, Ben!" said one of these merry fellows, thus addressing a raw-boned blanched old man, with an eye that glistened like a ferret's beneath his shaggy eyebrows, "hooray, Ben! there's but a flemish account in the can, so loose your jawin' tacks, and tip us a reg'lar starer."

"That's you, Ben," said the other lime-burner, "one o' your eyeopeners, for I'm blessed if the fog isn't coming off the sea like smoke, and we'd need o' summat 'sides this smothering kiln to warm us to-night."

"Overhaul your memory, and tip us Stoney Batter's Ghost," said the first speaker, "for, 'cording to all accounts he wos the most skeery sort of a fellar as ever lived 'bout these parts."

"He just wos, I b'lieve ye," replied old Ben, lolling his head on one side, with a half serious and half comic look. "Ah!" said he, in continuation, "poor Stoney Batter's fate may happen to the steadiest head amongst us!"

"How so?" said the two lime-burners, coaxingly, for Old Ben always maintained a proper and becoming mystery on the subject of Stoney Batter's ghost.

"How so?" echoed Old Ben, gruffly. "Well, I s'pose I must spin ye the yarn."

"Ah do, Ben, do; the kiln won't want feedin' this hour yet; so light yer pipe, and begin."

"Well," said Ben, after taking two or three long whiffs, to thoroughly condense his thoughts, "it needs no ghost to tell ye, that we limeburners in Blighted Hollow never had the best o' charicters. We wos