thinned and treated as park land, or left as copse, whether an old tree should be preserved or removed, a seat placed here, a pond made there. Nor has the result of the conflict in which Wimbledon Common stood in the fore-front been to benefit that common alone. The principle was early in the day established in the case of Wimbledon that London commons should not be converted into parks, but should be maintained in their open wild condition, while, at the same time, the necessity of some management to check abuses and preserve order was made clear. In the same year in which the Wimbledon

this day may be seen the manorial ditch separating the two commons, and checking the straying of cattle from one to the other. The same ditch marks the boundary of the metropolis, including Putney Lower Common within that area, but placing Barnes outside. Barnes must certainly, however, be ranked as a metropolitan common, for, thanks to the University Boat-race, there are few commons more familiar to Londoners. Twenty years ago, when the crowd was still of moderate proportions, it was possible to see the race at Putney, and then by running the common, and through Barnes

across

Common Act was passed, Hampstead Heath was placed under the Metropolitan Board of Works, and there are very few commons now within the metropolis which are not definitely set aside as places of recreation, and placed under proper guardianship, while in no case has inclosure been sanctioned. To the sturdy assertion by the inhabitants of Wimbledon of their rights and wishes, it is due in no small degree that London has saved her commons.

About a mile to the south of Putney Heath lies another valuable open space. Barnes and Putney Lower Commons, although lying together, are in different manors.

To

village, to get a good view of the boats not far from the finish; and a pretty sight it was on a bright day to see the crowd of horse and foot streaming over the greensward and amongst the yellow furze-bushes. Barnes is a very y different type of common from Wimbledon. It is perfectly flat, and has no copsewood, and scarcely a tree worth the name. In parts there is plenty of furze and a sprinkling of large thorn and bramble bushes, and in other parts there are stretches of smooth turf. On the side towards the river the common abuts on green meadows, dotted with stately trees, and there is a pleasant sense of quiet and spaciousness. But per

haps the prettiest spot is the green by the village, with its large pond, and quaint, oldfashioned houses. There is an old-time rural air about this corner, which makes us forget the neighbouring railway station and the wantonness with which the South-Western Company have cut the common in two. It is satisfactory to observe that the Conservators here do not banish cows from the common. The warm-brown of these slowmoving animals is just what is wanted to give a bit of colour to the scene. With gravel-digging stopped, and cattle excluded as inconvenient, there is a danger of commons becoming monotonous in tint, especially if the hideous and dirty practice, countenanced at Barnes, of repairing paths with coal-dust instead of gravel should extend to other places. Both Barnes and Putney Lower Common abound in cricket-grounds, and form a most valuable outlet for the rapidly increasing population along the water-side.

From Wimbledon and Putney we must travel some distance to the east before we reach the next London common, that of Wandsworth. Wandsworth Common was once the principal tract of waste land in the large manor of Battersea and Wandsworth which extended from Wimbledon to Clapham; but it is now but a fragment of its former self, for no common round London has been worse treated. It has been cut into ribands by the London and Brighton and South-Western Railway Companies, and the lord of the manor appears to have regarded it as a means of being generous at other people's expense. A huge block cut out of the very heart of the common is in the hands of the Patriotic Fund, while some twenty acres at the Tooting end have been made over to a London parish for the purposes of an industrial school. Not satisfied with such destructive generosity, Lord Spencer granted two large plots to building speculators, besides assenting to that process of rectifying boundaries and taking off ugly corners which is so fatal to the public. This process is indeed spoken of as though it were conceived in the interests of the public alone, but curiously enough it is always found necessary to straighten a fence by taking it outwards on to the open land, and increasing the area in private ownership. Thus, at Wandsworth, instead of a stretch of heath crowning the ridge of the hill, as the Wimbledon ridge is crowned, we have a series of green or furzy strips so far separated that the casual visitor would hardly imagine their common parentage. Still it is something that the process of destruction has at length been stopped. At the

top of the hill on the London side of old Wandsworth town there is still a wide playground, bearing evident signs of the care with which it is now guarded by the local Conservators. Old gravel diggings have been sloped off and sown with grass, groups of young trees break up the stretch of green, and seats abound. Not many years ago there was a really delightful pond on this bit of common. It was not venerable from age, for it had been formed from old gravel diggings almost within living memory. But it was large and plentifully dotted with islands, and in the early summer the yellow flags grew thickly about its banks. Unfortunately it was first drained and then inclosed; and a row of villas now marks its site. There are still, however, some good old elms hereabouts, and at present the west side of the common is edged by large gardens. Passing further along the road from Wandsworth to Clapham we come presently, on the left-hand, to another little triangular playground saved from the common, and opposite to it is the entrance to the long strip running from Battersea Rise to Nightingale Lane, the largest portion of the common now left. An avenue of elms-named after Lord Bolingbroke, who was at one time lord of the manor, and lived in his mansion hard by -lines the side of this strip, and groups of the same trees interspersed with poplars diversify its surface. But the best impression of Wandsworth Common is to be gained by a visit while the day is still young to the south or Tooting end. The ground slopes slightly upwards from Wandsworth, and from the top of the rise we look over a wide expanse of broken ground and get something of that idea of roominess and freedom which is so gratefully associated with open heath. To right and left the common is bounded by trees in a corner to the left once stood a telescope of unusual power, to which half London made pilgrimage-and the houses which may be descried in front of us are not near enough to be offensive. On the open land itself a smooth cricket-ground with its protecting post and chains contrasts pleasantly with a stretch of furze and bracken, while perhaps a laden gravel-cart winds its slow way over the sward, and a touch of yellow shows where the common is made to find material for its own footpaths.

Clapham Common, which lies atop of the next ridge to the east has escaped the depredations from which its neighbour has suffered so severely. Perhaps the fact that it lies in two manors has tended to prevent either of its owners from nibbling at its fair acres.

The westernmost half is in the manor of Battersea and Wandsworth, while the eastern is in Clapham, a manor which unlike most in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, seems always to have been in private hands. But probably the chief reason why the common has been left whole, is that for nearly a century it has been surrounded by good houses, the residences of wealthy city bankers and merchants. For, if Wimbledon may boast a connection with more names of firstrate distinction, Clapham Common stands alone amongst Metropolitan open spaces as the centre of an active school of social reformers. The mansion on the common to which Henry Thornton succeeded towards the close of the last century, and for which Pitt planned a saloon, was the meeting-place of the band of ardent men in whom religion neutralised the somewhat brutal tone induced in the nation by the long struggle with Napoleon. From this spot, under the leadership of Wilberforce and Zachary Macaulay, the campaign against slavery was directed. Here was conceived the idea of a society for the promulgation of the Bible throughout the world, and, when the idea took form and

substance, from the common was supplied the first president in the person of Lord Teignmouth, the ex-Viceroy of India. To Clapham Common resorted Henry Martyn, the most fervid missionary the Church of England ever sent to the East, and Thomas Gisborne, well known in his day as a refined expositor of the evangelical system, and more highly prized by his friends for his singular beauty of character. Granville Sharpe, by whose unremitting exertions the judges were reluctantly convinced of the doctrine, since so often vaunted, that the slave who touches the shores of Britain is free, and William Smith, the friend and confidant of Fox, were amongst the resident Claphamites, while Lord Brougham was an occasional visitor. It is not surprising that with such supporters the common should be safe. Once indeed, in more recent times, a railway company threatened to treat Clapham as they have treated Wandsworth. The residents met and agreed to oppose the invaders at every stage of their Bill at whatever cost, and the company thought better of the venture. For many years the residents took a lease of the common from the two lords and

relieved them of the trouble of management. Lately a more permanent arrangement has been made, and the common has passed into the hands of the Metropolitan Board, and, though on some points it is to be regretted that the residents did not retain the management for the Board is fussy and official,-when one sees the crowds which spread over the grass on a fine Saturday in spring, it is not surprising that the burden should have been shifted to metropolitan shoulders. On such a day Clapham Common is one huge cricket-ground. Looking from under the fine trees at the western end across the full length of the common the white flannels of the players are as thickly dotted over the grass as tombstones in a church-yard; wickets are pitched in dangerous proximity, and balls fly in all directions, to the total disregard of certain well-meant notices intended to protect the footpaths. Clapham Common grows a crop of notices. There are a few thorns about the Battersea end of the common, and every thorn-bush has its separate placard warning the sacrilegious that a penalty of £5 waits upon the theft of a flower. The Board it must be supposed finds this necessary, but the effect is a little ridiculous. Notices, however, cannot disfigure the fine row of limes which stand at this end of the common, or destroy the charming view across the smooth greensward alive with eager players to the old houses with their warm tints of red and brown, and their bright flowering trees-white may and yellow laburnum-relieved here and there with the dark foliage of a cedar. Clapham Common is wedge-shaped, one of its three sides abutting upon the main Clapham-road, one upon the road from Clapham to Wandsworth, and the third running from north-west to south-east, joining the two thoroughfares.

Upon this side the houses are approached only by a bye-road, and look directly upon the common as a country house looks upon its own park or meadow. Though of no particular beauty, they have, for the most part, a certain mellowed air of quiet respectability. They stand behind neatlykept lawns and carriage drives, separated from the open land by a low paling or sunk fence. The piece of common in front is protected by posts and chains, and is as clean-shaven as the lawn within; and groups of fine trees-in one place are some remarkably fine black birch-give a park-like appearance to the wide expanse. It is to

be feared the extent to which the common has now become a public play-ground may in holiday times somewhat disturb the serenity of these quiet old houses. But as we have said more than once the time to realise the full charm of a London common is the early morning, and as the sun brings out warm tints on the sward and throws soft shadows from the old trees, the resident at his breakfast can afford to forget the crowd of cricketers on the preceding afternoon, even if he wished at the time that they might be taking their enjoyment elsewhere. Changes are inevitable in a city which grows at the rate of 50,000 souls in a year. If the common would not always now form a suitable retreat for the pious reflections and generous dreams of Wilberforce and his associates, we may be quite sure they would be the first to hail with delight the appropriation of the open space they knew so well to the use of the thousands cooped up in narrow streets and lanes, for whom a London park or common is, for months together, the sole representative of green turf and waving tree.

ROBERT HUNTER.

IN the last decade of the seventeenth century there lived in the ancient city of Kilkenny, in Ireland, a gentleman of good family who had been bred to the law, named William Raftor. He might have lived and died in inglorious peace in his native city, had not the unhappy James II. sought to subdue his rebellious subjects by raising an Irish army. William Raftor became enthusiastic in the cause of the throneless monarch, entered into his service, fought for him at the Battle of the Boyne, and followed his fallen fortunes to France. By reason of his adherence to King Jamie, the family estates of the Raftors passed from them for ever, and were appropriated by the Crown. Though William Raftor received a captain's commission in the service of Louis XIV., and met with considerable favour at the hands of that monarch, yet, unlike many of his countrymen, he had no love for the land in which circumstances compelled him to live. After some time, he therefore sought and received pardon from Queen Anne, when, returning to England, he settled in London. His martial figure, the history of his misfortunes, and the renown of his bravery succeeded in winning him in a short time the hand and heart of one Mrs. Daniels, daughter of a goodly citizen and rich, who lived on Fish Street Hill. This lady in the course of years presented him with several children, the most remarkable of whom was born in 1711, baptised Catherine, and eventually became known to the world as Kitty Clive.

From the days when little Kitty was able to toddle across a room to the wonder and delight of her parents, she gave evidence of being a bright vivacious child; she crowed and jumped in her mother's arms, and later on, danced and sang untaught, as if these gifts had been bestowed upon her at birth by a wise and benevolent fairy godmother. Likewise did she possess considerable wit, a

temper quick and hot, an imitative genius, and an artistic temperament. The pasteboard kings and queens, the black-cloaked villains, the painted lovers, and the darkbrowed deceivers of the stage were to her no ordinary men and women, but beings of another world; and when the great Mr. Wilks passed by her father's house on his way to Drury Lane, she peered at him with wistful eyes that beheld the glory of his genius shine around his great powdered wig. But though unacquainted with Wilks, she had the satisfaction of meeting a lesser theatrical light in the person of Mr. Theophilus Cibber; who observing the bent of her talents, and remarking the sweetness of her voice, commended her to the notice of his father, then one of the ruling fates of Drury Lane playhouse. And so it happened one day, that little Kitty Raftor, then in her seventeenth year, stood in the august presence of Colley Cibber, Esq., poet-laureate, playwright, actor, and manager of Drury Lane Theatre. For this gentleman, who wore a wide-flapped coat, silver buckled shoes, ruffled shirt, and ponderous wig under which great bushy eyebrows protruded, as if the security of their shadow enabled his sharp eyes to peer more keenly at those he addressed, Kitty Raftor sang a song, for singing was in those days essential to an actress, and recited some lines. The result was Mr. Cibber nobbed his be-wigged head, which as all the world knew was full of wise judgments, and pronounced her excellent. At this, the brighteyed little woman's heart rejoiced within her; and presently, when he offered her an engagement in the playhouse at the salary of twenty shillings a week, her delight knew no bounds.

The part assigned her on the occasion of her first appearance was that of a page, in the dark tragedy bearing the impressive title, long to be remembered by her-Mithridates, King of Pontus. The page had a song to sing proper to the circumstances of the scene in which he appeared, which quaint ditty was received with extraordinary applause.

C