The name of Pennsylvania just mentioned comes to us again as we walk a little further west; for its famous founder, William Penn, is oddly enough associated with the notorious Cremorne Gardens, which lay just here. The very name of this haunt of feasting and flirting by a peculiar irony was derived from the Viscount Cremorne, its former owner, “this most excellent man,” known, even when plain Thomas Dawson, before his peerage, as a model of all that was steady and sedate. His second wife, the great-granddaughter of William Penn, was named Philadelphia, from the city of her birth—a good woman, whose character, her funeral sermon assures us, “it was difficult to delineate.” She, becoming Lady Cremorne, and outliving her husband, inherited this charming villa and grounds, called Chelsea Farm; and left it at her death, in 1825, to her nephew, Granville Penn, “one of the Hereditary Governors and Proprietaries of the late Province of Pennsylvania.” He soon sold it, and it became a den of drinking, dancing, devilry. The ancient gilded barge, “The Folly,” moored on its river front, was once more the scene of just such orgies as it had known in its youth, during the roystering days of the Restoration. Past the prim and proper brick cottages, past the innocent nursery garden, which cover wicked old Cremorne: through new streets and crescents built on the site of the famous Ashburnham estate—where, in old days, stretched the great gardens of the learned Dr. Cadogan, filled with rarest medicinal plants: out beyond the high brick wall, massive with reserve and respectability, behind which hides old Stanley House—built by Sir Arthur Gorges, who was embalmed in his friend Spenser’s verse as Alcyon, for his talents and his conjugal affection, and who was here visited once by Queen Elizabeth; her thrifty-minded majesty accepting, as was her wont, the customary gift of greeting, “a faire jewell,” from her host:—so we come to the westernmost edge of Chelsea. Here, standing on the little bridge which carries King’s Road across the deep railway cutting into Sand’s End, Fulham, we look over to an old plaster-fronted house, once known as Sandford Manor House. This was one of the many residences of Mistress Eleanor Gwynne; and in it, a hundred years after her, lived Joseph Addison. It has been newly plastered, the sloping roof raised a little, and the wings long since torn down; but it has been very slightly modernized otherwise; and Mr. McMinn, its occupant, with rare and real reverence has preserved its antique features; all the more marked by their contrast with the great modern gasometers beyond. Within, its square hall retains the old wainscotting, and the staircase remains as when Charles II. rode up it on his pony, for a freak. The delightful little back garden is perhaps hardly altered since those days, except that the four walnut trees which Charles is said to have planted in the front garden have gone to decay and have recently been uprooted.