er, but exhausted with the
effort, retired to bed. Seized by a sudden sickness, he arose--rung the
bell with alarming violence--and within two hours expired!

Of all the villages in the neighborhood of London, rising from the banks
of the Thames, (and how numerous and beautiful they are!) few are so
well known as that of Chiswick. The horticultural fetes are anticipated
with anxiety similar to that our grandmothers felt for the fetes of
Ranelagh; the _toilettes_ of the ladies rival the flowers, and the only
foe to the fascinating fair ones is the weather; but all which the crowd
care about in Chiswick is confined to the "Duke's grounds" and the
Society's Gardens. The Duke's beautiful little villa, erected by the
last Earl of Burlington, is indeed a shrine 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 gossamer 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, 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 church-yards 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 gray
stone that marks the resting-place of one of "the better order."

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S TOMB.]

How like the world was that silent churchyard! High and low, rich and
poor, mingled together, and yet avoiding to mingle. The dust of the
imperious Duchess of Cleve