painter first drew figures with burnt stick on the walls, and for a long time fancied his vocation was to paint faces, not landscape. To his studies in portrait-painting may be traced the admirable character of the figures in many of his landscapes. These few facts comprise nearly all we know of his early days ;-tradition gives us no more. Passing over the intermediate time-the space between boyhood and old age, the village of

Llanverris supplies a proof how completely genius can make a small thing its own-how entirely it may immortalise that upon which its finger has been placed. In his youth, Wilson painted a sign for the rural inn-two grinning heads-with the motto, We three loggerheads be;' the village hence received the name of Loggerheads,' it has since been .known by no other. Close to it is the house of Colomondie, where,

after his accession to the property, which removed the painter from the necessity of labour, and the pains and anxieties of a residence in London, to the corn-fields and varied beauties of his boyhood's home, it is pleasant to think the pure breeze of his native mountains revived and cheered him,

during the last few
months of his linger-
ing existence. He
loved to wander-
accompanied by
by a
faithful dog-through
this charming valley;
and the peasant will
point out Wilson's

stone, and Wilson's
trees; in the house
is the bed on which he
died, and in the church-
yard of Mold,-close

by the north door of the church-the bed wherein he was laid to rest. There are not many words upon his tomb, but they suffice.

THE REMAINS OF RICHARD WILSON, Esq.
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTISTS,

Interred May 15th, 1782, aged 69,

THE HOUSE OF ANDREW MARVEL.

FEW months ago we had been strolling about Palace-yard, and instinctively paused at No. 19, York-street, Westminster. It was evening; the lamplighters were running from post to post, but we could still see that the house was a plain house to look at, differing little from its associate dwellings; a common house, a house you would pass without a thought, unless the remembrance of thoughts that had been given to you from within the shelter of those plain, ordinary, walls, caused you to reflect; aye, and to thank God, who has left with you the memories and sympathies which elevate human nature. Here, while Latin secretary to the Protector, was JOHN MILTON to be found when at home;' and in his society, at times, were met, all the men who with their great originator, Cromwell, astonished Europe. Just think of those who entered that portal; think of them all if you can-statesmen and warriors; or, if you are really of a gentle spirit, think of two-but two; either of whom has left enough to engross your thoughts and fill your hearts. Think of JOHN MILTON and ANDREW MARVEL! think of the Protector of England, with two such secretaries!

Evening had deepened into night; busy hands were closing shutters, and drawing curtains, to exclude the dense fog that crept slowly and

silently, like an assassin, through the streets; the pavement was clammy, and the carriages rushing through the mist, like huge-eyed misshapen spectres, proved how eager even the poor horses were to find shelter; yet, for a long while, we stood on the steps of this building, and at length retraced our steps homeward. Our train of thought, although checked, was not changed, when seated by a comfortable fire. We took down a volume of Milton; but 'Paradise Lost' was too sublime for the mood of the moment, and we got to thinking' of Andrew Marvel, and displaced a volume of Captain Edward Thompson's edition of his works; and then it occurred to us to walk to Highgate, and once again enjoy the sight of his

6

quaint old cottage on the side of the hill just facing Cromwell House,' and next to that which once owned for its master the great Earl of Lauderdale. We know nothing more invigorating than to breast the breeze up a hill, with a bright clear sky above, and the crisp ground under foot. The wind of March is as pure as champagne to a healthy constitution; and let mountain men laugh as they will at Highgate-hill, it is no ordinary labour to go and look down upon London from its height.

Here then we are, once more, opposite the house where lived the satirist, the poet, the INCORRUPTIBLE PATriot.

It is a peculiar-looking dwelling, just such a one as you might well suppose the chosen of Andrew Marvel-exquisitely situated, enjoying abundant natural advantages, and yet altogether devoid of pretension; sufficiently beautiful for a poet, sufficiently humble for a patriot.

It is an unostentatious home, with simple gables and plain windows. In front are some old trees, and a convenient porch to the door, in which to sit and look forth upon the road, a few paces in advance of it. The front is of plaster, but the windows are modernised, and there are other alterations which the exigencies of tenancy have made necessary since Marvel's days.

The dwelling was evidently inhabited;—the curtains in the deep windows as white as they were when we visited it some years previous to the visit concerning which we now write, and the garden as neat as when, in those days, we asked permission to see the house, and were answered by an elderly servant, who took in our message, and an old gentleman came into the hall, invited us in, and presented us to his wife, a lady of more than middle age, and of that species of beauty depending upon expression, which it is not in the power of time to wither, because it is of the spirit rather than the flesh; and we also remembered a green parrot, in a fine cage, that talked a great deal, and was the only thing which seemed out of place in the house. We had been treated with much courtesy; and, emboldened by the memory of that kindness, we now ascended the stone steps, unlatched the little gate, and knocked.

Again we were received courteously and kindly by the lady we had formerly seen; and again she blandly offered to show us the house. We went up a little winding stair, and into several neat, clean bed-rooms, where everything was so old-fashioned that you could fancy Andrew Marvel himself was still its master.

'Look out here,' said the old lady; 'here's a view! They say this was Andrew Marvel's writing closet when he wrote sense; but when he wrote poetry he used to sit below in his garden. I have heard there is a private way under the road to Cromwell House, opposite; but surely that could not be necessary. So good a man would not want to work in the dark; for