that the haunt of such an ornament of their literature, such a master of their language, would have been thought worthy by Englishmen of a national tutelage and public consecration. Here at least would have been sacred ground, so hallowed by classic associations, and so feelingly and beautifully alluded to by the great poet himself in those admirable lines:

'To virtue only and her friends a friend,

The world beside may murmur and commend.
Know all the distant din the world can keep,
Rolls o'er my grotto and but soothes my sleep:
There my retreat the best companions grace,
Chiefs out of war and statesmen out of place:
There ST. JOHN mingles with my friendly bowl
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.'

The tender

In his private relations, there never existed a better man. care and affection of parents, who had preserved him to the world through a helpless infancy and a valetudinarian childhood, he repaid through life, with the most filial respect, the most untiring affection. The man who was admired and loved by Swift, Bolingbroke, Gay, Young, Arbuthnot; caressed by Bathurst, Oxford, and Murray; whose friendships were as fervent as his thoughts, and as lasting as his life, must have had no ordinary art in enchaining the affections and ing the fond regard of such as he honored with his intimacy. Here in his beautiful retreat, to use the heart-language of one of his letters: 'He grew fit for a better world, of which the light of the sun is but a shadow. God's works here come nearest GOD's works there, and to my mind a true relish of the beauties of Nature is the most easy preparation and quietest transition to an enjoyment of those of heaven.'

preserv

Strawberry-Hill, once the favorite retreat of Horace Walpole, is but a short ride from Twickenham. The queer old Gothic fabric is now fast going to ruin. The plaster is peeling off, and the bare lath exposed in many places. Nothing remains of that curious collection he spent years in gathering, and which it required a twenty-five days' sale to dispose of, save only some antiquated painted glass, in its little low windows, and some curious old hangings upon the walls of the round chamber, where George Selwyn often set the table in a roar.' The old library, in an upper chamber, still exhibits richly-painted figures on its low ceiling, while the shelves, with their literary treasures gone, and his worm-eaten library-table, where his Castle of Otranto' was written, give evidence of the desolation that now reigns in all the chambers where the old literary gossip once delighted to wander and to muse. It was of this house, writing to his friend Conway, and dating from the place, Walpole says: 'You perceive I have got into a new camp, and have left my tub at Windsor. It is a little plaything house that I have got, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in enamelled meadows with filigree hedges:

'A SMALL Euphrates through the piece is rolled,
And little fishes wave their wings of gold.'

It was here he collected that splendid gallery of paintings, teeming with the finest works of the greatest masters; matchless enamels of im

mortal bloom by Bordier and Zincke; chasings the workmanship of Cellini and Jean de Bologna; noble specimens of Faenza ware from the pencils of Robbia and Bernard Palizzi; glass of the rarest hues and tints, executed by Cousin and other masters of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; Roman and Grecian antiquities in bronze and sculpture; exquisite and matchless missals painted by Raphael and Julio Clovio; magnificent specimens of cinque-cento armor; miniatures illustrative of the most interesting periods of history; engravings in countless numbers and of infinite value; and a costly library extending to fifteen thousand volumes, and abounding in splendid editions of the classics. But Strawberry-Hill, with all its treasures, like many a place of older renown, was destined to illustrate the sad truth, 'that nothing on earth continueth in one stay.' The antique mirror that once reflected the fair features of a Mary Stuart, and the jeweled goblet that once was brimmed with ruby wine at the chivalrous feasts of the founder of the Garter; the Damascened blade that hung by the side of a Du Guesclin, all once the pride of the owner of Strawberry-Hill, have passed with the rest of the curiosity-shop into the various cabinets of Europe, to be again in their turn dispersed or lost sight of for ever. a few months, the very structure which contained all these wonders will be pulled down, to make room for a larger and more improved edifice, to be built by Earl Waldegrave, a descendant of Walpole's.

In

Leaving Richmond, we tarried only long enough at Windsor to explore a few of its interesting localities. The range of state apartments in its ancient castle is indeed splendid, hung with rare paintings and most interesting portraits of some of the earlier sovereigns. The Vandyke room, devoted to portraits of Charles the First and family, by the artist who has given his name to the chamber, is alone worth the visit. There is a strange interest awakened in gazing at the melancholy yet beautiful face of this most unfortunate of monarchs, who only proved his royalty when it was too late, by dying nobly upon the scaffold. The Queen's private apartments, which, through the special favor of the Lord Chamberlain, we were permitted to visit, are furnished with great richness and elegance. The views from the windows of all these rooms are most ravishingly beautiful, embracing both the scenery of the Home and the Great Park, which are not surpassed in Europe. I cannot now linger over the historic associations awakened by the noble castle itself, nor will I attempt to describe the charming scenery that makes Windsor Great Park and Virginia Water celebrated all over the civilized world; for I must hasten on to describe, currente calamo,' our visit to Warwick, Kenilworth, and Stratford.

It was a bright and beautiful morning when we set out from the Regent's Hotel, Leamington, for Warwick Castle. It was one of those mornings that Little John in 'Robin Hood' thought the most joyful in all the year,' a clear, still morning in June:

'FROM groves and meadows all impearled with dew
Rose silvery mists; no eddying wind swept by :

The cottage chimneys half-concealed from view
By their embowering foliage, sent on high
Their pallid wreaths of smoke, unruffled to the sky.'

Nothing could exceed the delightful coolness and fragrance of the atmosphere, laden with the scent of the new-mown hay, while those only who have looked out upon a morning landscape in England, glittering in the rays of the newly-risen sun, reflected from every dew-drop, and luxuriant with that rich verdure which alone belongs to an English clime, can attain a full comprehension of its exceeding loveliness. It was not long before we found ourselves knocking at the door of the outer gateway of the castle, then treading the narrow approach, cut through the solid rock, and leading up to the old home of many a feudal baron. Nothing can be finer than the graceful sweep of this curious pathway, which, being covered with ivy, and its summit mantled with noble trees, the fine proportions of the castle are hidden until they burst upon you all at once as this pathway terminates. The effect is certainly very grand. But it is not until the great gateway is passed that you learn to comprehend the vast extent of the building. The part of the castle which serves as a residence is then seen on the left hand. Its principal front, however, is turned from you toward the river Avon, along which it stretches for four hundred feet. A strong outer wall, with all needful defences, incloses the great base court, and was in ancient times surrounded by a wide and deep moat, which is now drained, and green with vegetation, and over which you pass by a small bridge, to stand beneath the noble arch of the gateway, still defended by its ancient portcullis. This castle has been well called the most splendid relic of feudal times in England. Its history is the history of a long line of the Earls of Warwick, reaching down to our times from the days of William the Conqueror. The most remarkable point of that history, however, was when the culmination of its glory was reached in the person of the King-maker,' whose name Shakspeare has made, as he prophesied it would become,

'Familiar in our mouths as household words.'

But we have no inclination to dwell upon its historic associations, which ought to be in the memory of every lover of English history; and therefore without further pause let us enter the noble pile. Entering the inner court, and passing up a grand old stone stair-way, under an arch that had a Norman look about it, a large carved oaken door opened at our summons, and we stood within the old baronial hall of the castle. It has recently been restored, and a most magnificent floor of paste-colored marbles of a diamond pattern laid down, while the roof is of the ornamental Gothic, in the shandrils of the arches of which are carved the bear and ragged staff, the armorial device of the House of Warwick. The walls are wainscoted with oak, deeply embrowned by age, and hung with ancient armor worn by many a bold baron of the House of Warwick in the fierce struggles on English soil, and upon the scorching plains of Palestine, where the cross out-blazed the crescent.' Here and there may be seen the good old cross-bows that had twanged in many a stern border struggle, with their arrows

'Of a cloth yard long or more.'

6

The antlers of several 'monarchs of the herd,' who had fallen in the chase, graced the upper part of the magnificent windows, while the ancient and grand fire-place, with its huge logs piled before it, reminded one strongly of the olden time, when the mailed retainers of the ancient barons gathered in cheerful groups round the wide hearth of the old baronial hall.' Three large Gothic windows, placed in deep recesses, shed a pleasing softened light throughout the room, while busy fancy, led back to deeds and days of other years, conjures up the mail-clad knight, the bold but lordly baron, and the ladie fair,' and peoples with ideal beings a spot so truly appropriate for indulging in romantic ideas. The prospect from the windows is indeed charming. The soft and classic Avon here 'flows gently' over in a cascade one hundred feet beneath you, laves the foundation of the castle, and continues its meandering way through the extensive and highly cultivated park. That landscape is still indelibly impressed upon my memory. On the right, the undulating foliage of forest-trees of every hue, intermingled with the stately cedar, spreading its curiously-feathered branches, and the verdant lawn, where groups of cattle were grazing; on the left, the picturesque and ornamental ruins of the old bridge, with shrubs and plants flinging their tendrils around its ruined arches. I should have loved to linger in that old hall, conjuring up the associations that in such a place crowd upon even the most ordinary imagination. But with the large party that accompanied us, we had to play the game of 'follow your leader,' and pass through state-room after state-room, filled with paintings, mosaic tables, richly-carved buffets, gorgeous furniture, rare and splendid China, with articles of vertu innumerable. One room deserving particular notice was the cedar chamber,' lined with the most fragrant cedar from floor to ceiling, and crowded with the richest and rarest furniture. In Lady Warwick's boudoir, a lovely little room, hung with pea-green satin and velvet, I noticed two cabinet portraits, painted from life by Holbein, of Anne Boleyn, and of her sister Mary. They are both radiant with beauty; but all preferred the mild, sweet face of the sister who was fortunate enough not to attract the amorous glances of the royal Blue-beard. In the magnificent grounds attached to the castle may be seen the far-famed Warwick vase. It is a magnificent work of art, in white marble, and of circular shape. It has two large handles, exquisitely formed of interwoven vine branches, from which the tendrils, leaves, and clustering grapes spread round the upper margin. The middle of the body is enfolded by the skin of the panther, with the head and claws beautifully finished. Above are the heads of satyrs, bound with wreaths of ivy, accompanied by the vineclad spear of Bacchus, and the crooked staff of the augurs. This vase was found at the bottom of a lake at Adrian's villa, near Tivoli, and certainly is in every way worthy the taste of its first owner.

The day after our visit to Warwick, we left Leamington for Kenilworth, only some five miles away. Long before we reached the ruins of the ancient pile of Castle Kenilworth, we could discern them looming up in majestic grandeur. Halting at the little inn near the ruin, we crossed the road to the great gateway built by the Earl of Leicester, where we met a rough-looking specimen of humanity, who informed

us that he was the man who took care of the ruin.' Through the small gate entrance we passed the noble gate-house of Leicester, still entire, with its majestic portico sculptured with his arms, and by its elaborate architectural adornment attesting the magnificence of its former proprietor. In a few moments, we were standing upon the green sward, once the outer court of the castle, and there right before us, in all its magnificence, stood the hoary pile. Proudly seated on an elevated spot, it exhibits in grand display mouldering walls, dismantled towers, broken battlements, shattered stair-cases, and fragments more or less perfect of arches and windows, some highly ornamented and beautiful. Nor are the more usual picturesque decorations wanting. The gray moss creeps over the surface of the mouldering stone, and the long spiry grass waves over the top of the ramparts. To the corners and cavities of the roofless chambers cling the nestling shrubs, while with its deepening shades the aged ivy expands in clustering masses over the side-walls and buttresses, or hangs in graceful festoons from the tops of the arches and the tracery of the windows. The grand square structure which we passed on entering the court-yard was formerly the principal entrance to the castle. From the point where we first halted to gaze upon the majestic ruin, appear what is styled Cæsar's Tower,' and Leicester's buildings, with a space thrown open between, but once occupied by the buildings called after the bluff Harry, who once dishonored them with his presence. The vast square building on our right called Cæsar's Tower,' is the strongest, most ancient, and perfect part of the ruin. Next to this tower were the buildings occupied by retainers, but very little remains of these to be seen. Beyond is the strong tower, to whose top we ascended, and over the crumbling turrets of which the rich ivy hung in clustering masses. From its summit a most charming prospect spread out before the eye. Having with me an engraving taken from a painting of Kenilworth before the spoiler came, it was very easy to trace the outer wall, the inclosure, and the site of the ancient lake which once spread itself over the country beyond the outer wall for more than two miles. How different now the prospect from what it was in the time of Dudley! Then the clear waters of the lake reflected the magnificent proportions of Kenilworth,

WHERE mighty towers

Upraised their heads in conscious pride of strength;'

while as far as the eye could reach, lay the wooded pride of its noble park, embracing some twenty miles within its range. Now, meadows green with the luxuriance of English verdure, stretch away from the foot of the ruin, and fields are seen gently undulating with their ripening grain, where once lay the grassy slopes of that 'moste delightsome parke,' covered with

'THE careless red steer,
Full of the pasture.'

Descending from the highest point of the tower, we soon reached the old banqueting-hall, immortalized in the glowing tale of The Wizard of the North,' still a grand apartment, about eighty-five feet long and