And then the long walk through the Park, itself a marvel of the picturesque. Along winding paths, over rustic hedges, resting here under the cooling shade of a huge chestnut, whose branches cover a vast extent of ground, stopping anon to admire the graceful deer that gaze timidly and yet curiously at the passer-by, as though wondering why he should trespass upon their domain. For a whole hour there was a continual revelation of natural beauties, and then suddenly the old town of Kingston was entered. Here the streets were narrow, the houses low and old-fashioned, and the people quiet-going English, who have lived in the same place where their fathers lived before them, and their's before them. [Sidenote: DOWN THE RIVER.] Passing the cattle market, which is about the only live business of Kingston, a large square stone, surrounded by an iron railing, attracts attention. Examination shows it to be the identical stone upon which sat the ancient Saxon Kings when they were crowned. There was nothing particularly peculiar about the stone, but of course it would not have done to have gone by without at least casting a glance at the relic of so long ago. Possibly the proper thing to do was to uncover and drop a tear as the memories of the glorious scenes thereon enacted went trooping through the mind. Possibly it would have been the thing to sit on the queer old stone and imagine the space around filled with warlike chiefs and outlandishly arrayed ladies of the Court, and indulge in a day dream of the times when such things occurred. Possibly this may have been the thing to do, but it wasn't done, and for good reasons, too. Even if one had had the inclination to act in such an orthodox, sight-seeing manner, which is much doubted, there was a high iron railing, with sharp pointed iron palings, that would have effectually kept the greatest enthusiast outside the sacred enclosure.