turdy brow, we should find an
admirable development of the organ of self-esteem. He thought as little
of a future and "happier Hogarth," as he did of the old masters. He was
Monarch of the Present--and he knew it!

The age we live in talks much about renovation, but it is not a
conservative age; on the contrary, it would pull down Temple Bar, if it
dared, to widen the passage from the Strand into Fleet Street; and it
demolishes houses, shrines of _noble memories_, with a total absence of
respect for what it ought to honor. We never hear of an old house
without a feeling that it is either going to be destroyed or modernized;
and this inevitably leads to a desire to visit it immediately. Having
determined on a drive to Chiswick to make acquaintance with the dwelling
of Hogarth, and look upon his tomb--we became restless until it was
accomplished.

We had seen, by the courtesy of Mr. Allison, the piano-forte
manufacturer in Dean Street, the residence of Sir James Thornhill, whose
daughter Hogarth married: the proprietor bestows most praiseworthy care
on the house, which was formerly one of considerable extent and
importance. Mr. Allison says there can be little doubt that the grounds
extended into Wardour Street. Once, while removing a chimney-piece in
the drawing-room, a number of cards tumbled out--slips of
playing-cards, with the names of some of the most distinguished persons
of Hogarth's time written on the backs; the residences were also given,
proving that the "gentry" then dwelt where now the poorer classes
congregate. But the most interesting part of the house is the staircase,
with its painted ceiling; the wall of the former is divided into three
compartments, each representing a sort of ball-room back-ground, with
groups of figures life-size, looking down from a balcony; they are well
preserved, and one of the ladies is thought to be a very faithful
portrait of Mrs. Hogarth. Hogarth must have spent some time in that
house:--but we were resolved, despite the repute of its being old and
ugly, to visit his dwelling-place at Chiswick; and though we made the
pilgrimage by a longer _route_ than was necessary, we did not regret
skirting the beautiful plantations of the Duke of Devonshire, nor
enjoying the fragrance of the green meadows, which never seem so green
to us, as in the vale of the Thames. The house is a tall, narrow,
abrupt-looking place, close to the roadside wall of its inclosed garden;
numbers of cottage