worthy of deep homage; within its walls both Charles James Fox and George Canning breathed their last; and if, for a moment, we recall the times of Civil War, when each honest English heart fought bravely and openly for what was believed the right,' we may picture the struggle between Prince Rupert and the Earl of Essex, terminating with doubtful success, for eight hundred high-born cavaliers were left dead on the plain that lies within sight of the gardens so richly perfumed by flowers, and echoing not to the searching trumpet or rolling drum, but to the music of Strauss and Jullien.

The Duke of Devonshire's grounds, containing about ninety acres, are filled with mementos, pleasant to the eye and suggestive to the imagination; but we must seek and find a more solemn scene, where the churchyard of Chiswick incloses the ashes of some whose names are written upon the pages of History. Though the church* is, in a degree, surrounded by houses,

Thornhill: Hogarth therefore ridiculed Kent's pretensions in the plate we speak of. Chiswick House is partly copied from a design by Palladio (the Villa of Marquis Capra, near Vicenza,) and originally consisted of the central portion only, of which Lord Hervey remarked, that 'the house was too small to inhabit, and too large to hang to a watch.' Wyatt has since added to the buildings. The Duke of Devonshire at present has here a fine collection of

paintings.

* The church is dedicated to St. Nicholas, the patron of mariners and fishermen. It has very few antique features to boast of, with the exception of the tower, which an inscription within tells us was founded' by Mr. William Bordale, vicar of the church, who died in 1425, and refers to the brass of his tombstone in this church.' The slab in the middle aisle, upon which it was fixed, may be seen, but the brass is not visible. Faulkner, in his History of Chiswick (1845), 'says it is now in the hands of the church-wardens,' and he engraves a fac-simile of it. When we visited the church no one seemed to know anything about it. Faulkner's cut gives an important and ornamental character to the brass; why should it not be placed against the wall, and beside the inscription? it would be at once appropriate and ornamental. It is a duty the parishioners owe to a benefactor.

Also Sir John Chardin,

Kent, the architect, whom Hogarth satirised, lies in the chancel. the celebrated traveller, who died in 1712, and who is commemorated in Westminster Abbey ; and a younger and more recent traveller, who perished in the service of science, Mr. Forbes of the Linnæan Society, a naturalist, who died in Eastern Africa at the early age of twenty-two, while prosecuting his researches. The churchyard contains a tablet to the memory of Ugo Foscolo, the Italian poet, who died in 1827, at the comparatively early age of fifty-two; a man of uncompromising spirit, and the stern opponent of Napoleon, at a time when Italy was prostrate at his feet. With great ability and perseverance, and indomitable honesty of purpose; want of order and worldly prudence, added to a fretful temper, involved him in hopeless embarrassment, and shortened his life.

there is much of the repose of a country churchyard' about it; the Thames belts it with its silver girdle, and, when we visited its sanctuary, the setting sun cast a mellow light upon the windows of the church, touching a headstone or an urn, while the shadows trembled on the undulating graves. Like all churchyards it is crowded, and, however reverently we bent our footsteps, it was impossible to avoid treading on the soft grass of the humble grave, or the grey stone that marks the resting-place of one of the better order.'

How like the world was that silent churchyard! High and low, rich and poor, mingled together, however desirous to keep apart. The dust of the imperious Duchess of Cleveland found here a grave; while here, too, as if to contrast the pure with the impure, repose the ashes of Mary, daughter of Oliver Cromwell; Holland, the actor, the friend of David Garrick, here cast aside his 'motley.' Can we wonder at the actor's love of applause ?posterity knows him not; present fame alone is his-the lark's song leaves

Hogarth's Tomb.

no record in the air!-Lord
Macartney, the famous ambas-
sador to China-a country of
which our knowledge was then
almost as dim as that we have
of the moon-the ambassador
rests here, while a Chinese junk
is absolutely moored in the very
river that murmurs beside his

grave. Surely the old place is
worthy of a pilgrimage. Louth-
erbourg, the painter, found a
resting-place in its churchyard.
Ralph, the historian and poli-
tical writer, whose histories and
politics are now as little read
as the Dunciad which held
them up to ridicule, is buried
here; and confined as is the

space, it is rich in epitaphs, three from the pen of David Garrick,

two from that of Arthur Murphy, may here be perused.

Hogarth's monument has been very faithfully copied by Mr. Fairholt.* It is remarkable among the many plainer stones' with which the churchyard is crowded, but it is by no means distinguished for that artistic character which it

might have received as covering the remains of so great an artist. A small slab, in relief, takes from it, however, the charge of insipidity;

it contains a comic

mask, an oak-branch, pencils and mahl-stick, a book and a scroll, and the palette, marked with the line of beauty.'t

It has been remarked, that while he faithfully followed Nature through

Hogarth was buried in a simple grave by his widow, who through life regarded him with love and pride. The monument was erected, and the expense defrayed, by a subscription among his friends, at the instance of Garrick. It is now kept up by voluntary subscriptions of the parishioners. Our cut represents the north side, upon which Garrick's lines are engraved. On the east side is a simple inscription recording his death, and that of his wife, in November, 1789. On the south side is one to the memory of his sister Anne, who died 1771; and of Mary Lewis, spinster, who died 1808, a worthy and affectionate relative, in whose arms the painter died. The widow of Sir James Thornhill is also buried in the same grave, and commemorated on the west side. The arms of Hogarth (azure, the sun in splendour) combined with those of Thornhill, appear on the tomb, and may be seen in our initial letter. The kindliness of heart, which endeared the painter to his family and relatives, enshrined him in their memories, ' and in death they were not divided.' Cunningham says, 'he was of a temper, cheerful, joyous and companionable; no one questioned his domestic serenity; he was uniformly kind to his sisters and to his cousin Mary Lewis; and what I hold, though last, not least, is that his domestics had remained many years in his service, and that he painted all their portraits and hung them up in his house.'

Sir Richard Phillips, in his Walk from London to Kew,' speaks from his early memory of Hogarth's widow:-'I saw with my mind's eye the widow Hogarth, and her maiden relative Richardson, walking up the aisle, dressed in their silken sacks, their raised headdresses, their black calashes, their laced ruffles, and their high crooked canes, preceded by their aged servant, Samuel; who, after he had wheeled his mistress to church, in her Bathchair, carried the prayer-books up the aisle, and opened and shut the pew.' She lived in Chiswick, in the house we have engraved, until her death in 1789, and then left it to her female relative.

all her varieties, and exposed, with inimitable skill, the infinite follies and vices of the world, he was in himself an example of many virtues.' And the following poetical tribute by David Garrick is inscribed on the tomb :

'Farewell! great painter of mankind,

Who reached the noblest point of Art;
Whose pictured morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.

If Genius fire thee, reader, stay;

If Nature touch thee, drop a tear;

If neither move thee, turn away,

For Hogarth's honoured dust lies here!'

Doctor Johnson also composed an epitaph, which Cunningham considers 'more to the purpose, but still unworthy.'

The hand of him here torpid lies,

That drew the essential forms of grace;
Here closed in death the attentive eyes
That saw the manners in the face.'

The tributes-in poetry and prose—are just; examine the works of this great painter-teacher as closely and suspiciously as we may, we can discover nothing that will induce a momentary doubt of his integrity of purpose in all he did; his shafts were aimed at Vice,-in no solitary instance was he ever guilty of arraigning or assailing Virtue. Compare him with the most famous of the Dutch masters, and he rises into glory; coarseness and vulgarity in them had no point out of which could come instruction. But Hogarth's subjects were never without a lesson, and, inasmuch as he resorted for them to the open volume of humanity, like those of the most immortal of our writers, his works are not for an age but for all time.'

THE GRAVE OF IZAAK WALTON.

ONG ere we determined to make pilgrimage to the last resting-place of the high-priest of angling, we had become, through the medium of his book, an appreciator of his gentle craft. We have companioned the volume so much that we can hardly believe we have not known its author in the flesh. Under his influence our sympathies have expanded, our knowledge of the true and beautiful has increased. He has guided us through many a mountain pass, and beside many a mountain

stream we should never have known but for him! What peaceful hours and days we have spent beside the Lea; and when, evening after evening, we lingered amid the fastnesses of Derbyshire, when the sun's rays touched the hills with the last farewell of light, and the moonbeams came trickling down upon the waters, and the stillness was so intense, that the whispering voice of the trout stream seemed to prate loudly of the mysteries of the faroff moors from whence it came,-it was pleasant to picture the wraith of the good old angler, bending over the Dove, then melting away into the mists which hang about the cliffs of that delicious river. We have sat beneath the shadow of the 'great hawthorn' until the stars crept up the blue vault of heaven, or darted into sudden brightness in their own appointed spheres; we have worshipped in the Temple of the Dale