"We wish," said we to ourselves, "that his lordship's taste had been as good as his intentions, and that, instead of this trumpery piece of brass, which cannot have cost him much more than five pounds,-he had put up a marble tablet, which one might have read without all this scrubbing. How much better, too, it would have been, if his lordship had not obtruded his own name upon it!" If we had continued our soliloquy much longer, we should have found fault not only with the taste and liberality, but with the motives of his lordship; but we were saved from the uncharitableness by the pew-opener, who broke in upon our meditation to remind us that immediately under the pew on which we stood lay the ashes of the poet.

"What, was he buried within the church?" said we.

"No," replied the pew-opener, "on the outside, just against the wall; but the church has been enlarged since that day to make room for the organ; so that the wall passes right across his coffin, and cuts the body in two, as it were."

"Cuts the body in two !" repeated we, "and, did no charitable soul, when this thing was proposed, so much as hint that the church might have been made a little larger, so that the whole body might have been brought inside?"

"I never inquired," said the pew-opener; "but, surely, sir, you'll go and see the grave of the great Mary Ann Yates? Lord bless you, sir, more people go to see that grave than any other in the church!"

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"The great Mary Ann Yates!" said we in some perplexity; for, to our shame be it spoken, we had forgotten the name, and we did not like to expose our ignorance to the pew-opener. Oh, by all means," said we, making the best of the matter, and following our conductress to the other end of the church towards the communion-table.

"There," said the pew-opener, removing a small mat with her foot, and directing our attention to a plain slab on the floor, "there lies the body. Of course you've heard of her?"

We said nothing, but made a feint of being so engrossed with the epitaph as not to have heard the inquiry.

"She was very celebrated, I've been told," added she, after a pause; "and, indeed, I've heard that Mrs. Siddons wasn't anything like equal to her."

This observation enlightened us; our ignorance was cleared up. We gazed upon the grave of the great Mary Ann Yates,-the tragic actress, Mrs. Yates, so greatly admired in her day, and a woman of undoubted genius in the pursuit she had chosen. "And such," thought we, "is fame; a mere matter of circles and classes. Pilgrims come to the tomb of a person celebrated in one sphere, who are ignorant that in the next grave sleeps one who was just as celebrated in another, and who do not even know that such a person ever existed. The worshippers of poetry never heard of the actress; the admirers of the actress, in all probability, never heard of the poet, and so on, through all the various ranks and denominations of society." We were thus cogitating, when the pew-opener told us that she had some other very fine tombs to show us, and with such an emphasis upon the word fine, as impressed us with the notion that she would think we slighted her monuments, (and she was evidently proud of them,) if we refused to look at them. We went round accordingly, and up into the galleries, where several tablets were pointed out to us, with warm eulogia upon the sculptured

cherubim, or other ornaments that supported them. But one only struck us as remarkable, a plain blue stone, with a Latin inscription to the memory of Robert Lewes, a Cambro-Briton and a Lawyer, who died in the year 1649, "and who," said the epitaph, "was such a great lover of peace and quiet, that when a contention began in his body between life and death, he immediately gave up the ghost to end the dispute." There is wit and humour even in the grave. There is an entertaining French work, entitled "Des grands Hommes qui sont morts en plaisantant;" one as entertaining might be made upon the subject of "Wit among the tombstones." It would not be uninstructive either, and would afford numberless illustrations of that unaccountable propensity of many people to choose the most solemn things as the objects of their merriment. The richest comedy ever penned fails to excite more laughter than the lugubrious jokes of the grave-diggers in Hamlet; and sextons, mutes, and undertakers, are the legitimate butts of the jester and caricaturist all over the world.

mission.

Having lingered in the church until we had satisfied our curiosity, we proceeded towards Rosedale House, where Thomson resided, and where the chair on which he sat, the table on which he wrote, and the peg on which he hung his hat, are religiously preserved, as relics of departed genius. Greatly to our sorrow, we were unable to procure adIt was an inconvenient hour for the family, and we had not come properly provided with an introduction. There was no help for it, and we therefore walked on towards the Green. The house, after the poet's death, was purchased by a Mr. Ross, who had so much veneration for his memory that he forebore to pull it down, though small and inconvenient, but enlarged and repaired it, at an expense of nine thousand pounds. It was afterwards inhabited by the Honourable Mrs. Boscawen, the widow of the admiral, who participated in this feeling of her predecessor, and repaired the alcove in the garden, where the poet used to write in the fine weather. Within it she replaced his table, and inscribed over the entrance,

"Here Thomson sung the seasons, and their change."

Over the back seat at this table hangs a board, upon one side of which are the following words, "James Thomson died at this place, August 22nd, 1748 ;" and upon the other a longer memorial, with a strange and unpleasing affectation of fine writing about it, which runs as follows: "Within this pleasing retirement, allured by the music of the night. ingale, which warbled in soft unison to the nielody of his soul, in unaffected cheerfulness, and genial though simple elegance, lived James Thomson. Sensibly alive to all the beauties of nature, he painted their images as they rose in review, and poured the whole profusion of them into his inimitable Seasons.' Warmed with intense devotion to the Sovereign of the Universe, its flame glowing through all its composi tions, animated with unbounded benevolence, with the tenderest social sensibility, he never gave one moment's pain to any of his fellow.creatures, save by his death, which happened at this place on the 22nd of August, 1748."

From Rosedale House, the present name of this dwelling, we stroll. ed up Kew Foot-Lane, and soon arrived at the Green, a large open space, which does not belie its name, surrounded with many comforta able-looking houses, and rows of venerable trees.

The ancient palace of the Kings of England stood upon this spot. There is little of it left now except the gateway, and that little offers nothing to satisfy the gaze of any but the mere antiquary. It does not look old and venerable enough for the lover of the picturesque, being so patched up by and wedged in between surrounding houses as to have almost lost its distinctive character. Several kings and queens of England lived and died upon this spot; Edward I. and II. resided here, and Edward III. died here, deserted in that last hour by all the flatterers and parasites who had fattened upon his bounty; even Alice Pierce, the mistress of his bosom, flying from his side, and leaving him to die with no more attendance than if he had been a beggar, giving up the ghost in a ditch. Richard II., the next king, passed much of his time at this manor; in whose days, at Sheen, as we are informed by that veracious chronicler, Stowe, "there was a great fighting among the gnats! They were so thick gathered," says he, "that the air was darkened with them, and they fought and made a great battle. Two parts of them being slain, fell down to the ground, the third part having got the victory, flew away, no man knew whither. The number of the dead was such that they might be swept up with besoms, and bushels filled with them." With what a gusto does the old historian describe this battle! how persuaded he seems of its truth! and, with what a relish for the marvellous, and expectation to find the same in his reader, does he note every circumstance! Many of the battles between the rival houses of York and Lancaster, are dismissed by him with hardly more notice.

Anne, the queen of Richard II. died in this building. She was so tenderly beloved by her husband, that he cursed the place where she died, and would never afterwards inhabit it. The very sight of the building so moved him to grief, that he gave directions that it should be pulled down. The order was only partially executed, but the build. ing remained in a ruinous condition until the time of Henry V., who repaired it, and founded three religious houses near it. It was destroyed by fire in the reign of Henry VII., who built it up again more magnificently than before, and first altered the name of the village from Sheen to Richmond, which it has ever since borne. Henry VIII. also resided here in the early part of his reign, and once instituted a grand tournament on the Green, at which he fought in disguise. afterwards exchanged it with Wolsey, for the more magnificent palace of Hampton Court; but, after the fall and death of that minister, the palace again reverted to the crown. Elizabeth was confined in it for a short time, during the reign of her sister, and here she died brokenhearted for the death of the Earl of Essex. During the dissensions of the revolution, this palace met some rough treatment from the hands of the republicans, and the greater part of it was pulled down. It has never since held up its head in the world, but has gradually pined away to its present condition.

He

There are few, and those few must be insensible to the charms of natural beauty, who ever pass Richmond without ascending its farfamed hill, and gazing upon the landscape which stretches beneath it. How beautiful is the oft-quoted exclamation of her poet.

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Enchanting vale, beyond whate'er the muse
Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!

O, vale of bliss! O, softly-swelling hills,
On which the power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonder of his toil.

Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around

Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams!"

We have read many descriptions of this favourite spot; and, before we had seen it we were almost afraid to visit it, for, like Wordsworth and the Yarrow, 16 we had a vision of our own," and dreaded lest the reality should "undo it." But curiosity was at last triumphant, and we went, and found reality more lovely than the pictures which had been drawn of her either by the pencil or the pen. The first time we ever ascended the hill, the landscape was illumined by the rays of a bright noon-tide sun, and the waters of the Thames, stretching out right before us, were illumined with a long streak of light, and the far forest gleamed in the radiancy as their boughs were waved to and fro by a strong, but pleasant, south-west wind. Distant Windsor was visible; and, hundreds of neat villas, and other pleasing objects, gratified the eye, to whichever side it turned; the Thames freshening and enlivening the whole. As we stood, the sky became overcast; dark clouds arose upon the horizon; the wind blew colder than its wont; while a few large drops of rain gave notice of an impending storm. The Terrace was soon bare of its visiters; all sought shelter from the rain; but we remained to watch the tempest, and the changes it wrought upon the landscape. It was glorious to see how the trees waved, like fields of corn, as the storm blew over them, and the smart showers whirled around; now hiding one spot by the thickness of the rain, and now wheeling past another, and obscuring it in like manner. The distant heights were no longer visible, and we could just see the Thames winding at the foot of the hill, and curling itself into tiny waves under the breath of the storm. The blossoms of the wild chestnut trees fell thick around us, as we stood, dif fusing a more delicious fragrance through the air; and the very dust of the ground seemed odorous as the moisture fell upon it. Suddenly there was a flash right over Windsor Castle, and all its towers were perceptible for an instant, and then hidden again. Suc. cessive flashes illumined other spots; and, while the rain was piercing through our garments, we had no other thought than a strong desire to become an artist by the inspiration of the moment, and at one touch of our pencil, to fasten upon enduring canvass a faithful representation of the scene.

It was admiration of this spot that inspired the now neglected Mallet, the friend of Thomson, and a dweller in the neighbourhood, to write that beautiful song of his in praise of the Thames, which deserves to be better known.

"Where Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes leads,
Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing,

There, in a safe, though small retreat,

Content and Love have fixed their seat;

Love, that counts his duty pleasure;

Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.

"From art, from jealousy secure,
As faith unblamed, as friendship pure,
Vain opinion nobly scorning,

Virtue aiding, life adorning,

Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
May those whom Truth and Reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,

Live like us, beloved and beloving."

Descending the terrace, and crossing the bridge, how pleasant is the walk along the Middlesex bank of the river to the village of Twickenham, and its old grey church, where Pope lies buried! But, plea. santer still is it to take a boat, and be rowed up the middle of the stream, unlocking the stores of memory as we pass, and saying to ourselves," Here on the right, lived Bacon.-Yonder, at West Sheen, lived Sir William Temple; and there was born the celebrated Stella; and at the same place Swift first made her acquaintance.-And here, again, is Marble Hall, where the beauteous Lady Suffolk kept open house for all the wits of the neighbourhood.”

Among the most conspicuous of the places we pass there is a neat little rural hut, called Gay's Summer house, where, according to tradition, that amiable poet wrote his celebrated fables for the infant Duke of Cumberland, currying court favour, but getting nothing but neglect for his pains. "Dear Pope," he wrote to his brother poet, "what a barren soil I have been striving to produce something out of! Why did I not take your advice before my writing fables for the Duke, not to write them, or rather to write them for some young nobleman. It is my hard fate,-I must get nothing, write for or against them." Poor Gay! Too well he knew, as Spenser so feelingly sings in his Mother Hubbard's Tale,

"What hell it was in suing, long to bide,

To lose good days, that might be better spent ;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To fret the soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat the heart through comfortless despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone !"

Yet one cannot help thinking, after all, that it served him right; for, according to his own confession, he was ready to wield his pen either for or against the court, as might be most profitable. Who but must regret that a man of genius should ever have been reduced to so pitiful an extremity? Who but must sigh that he should, even to his bosom friend, have made such a confession?

At a short distance beyond Gay's Summer-house, and on the same side of the river, stands Ham House, formerly the residence of the noted Duke of Lauderdale, and where he and his four colleagues, Clifford, Ashley, Buckingham, and Arlington, held those secret meetings, which acquired for them a name infamous in English his. tory, the Cabal,-a word which their initials happened to compose. In the house, now the residence of the Countess of Dysart, are preserved many memorials of the Lauderdale family. According to tradition this is one of the places in which Charles the Second took