"I

place," exclaimed the baron, who was determined on the fulfilment of his oath; and he seized the archbishop by the robe. Becket declared that he would not stir. "Come hence, I say," continued Fitzurse, stung by a last feeling of remorse.will not quit this place," replied Becket firmly. "If you seek my blood, I freely give it you for the peace and freedom of the church; but, in Heaven's name, I entreat that you will not harm my servants."-The murderers would have wished to perpetrate their crime in a less holy place: but the primate held by one of the pillars and struggled with his assailants. For a moment he recovered the strength which had distinguished him in his warlike days. He almost levelled Tracy with the ground, and repulsed Fitzurse, to whom in his indignation he addressed an opprobrious term. Fitzurse then aimed a blow at him. A monk, who interposed to ward it off, had his arm nearly severed in two, and Becket was wounded. Resigned to his martyrdom, he kneeled down to pray, and in his last words, he recommended himself and the cause of the church to God, the Virgin, and the saints. A second blow laid him prostrate before the altar of St. Benedict. He had sufficient presence of mind to wrap himself in his robe, and devoutly joining his hands, he expired amidst repeated strokes of battle axes and swords.

Of the primates who have occupied the see of Canterbury since the time of Thomas á Becket, the two most celebrated in history suffered a tragical death. The first, Cranmer, one of the favourers

of protestantism, in the reign of Henry VIII. was dragged to the burning pile in the religious reaction which ensued in the reign of Mary. The second, Archbishop Laud, forfeited his head on the scaffold, in the puritanical tumults which prevailed at the latter end of the reign of Charles I.

LETTER V.

TO M

I ALMOST promised that my last letter should be picturesque ;-and perhaps it may more properly be termed historical. The strongest impression exclusively engrosses the mind, and when the recollection of a great event suddenly carries us from the present time, it is not in our power to confine ourselves within the limits of the plan which we traced out on first taking up the pen. I know not whither I may be led in endeavouring to sketch the various remarkable spots in the counties of Middlesex and Surrey; but when I visited these charming scenes, I thought I should find it difficult to refrain from celebrating them in the trite form of a pastoral. As to the climate of Great Britain, which has been so much abused, I can only say that I find it very agreeable. I not only admire the delightful serenity of the nights; but in the day time, the sun, which is

by no means so great a rarity as I expected it to be, produces the most beautiful effects of light and shadow on the numerous rises and falls of the ground, which is every where covered with the freshest verdure.

"God made the country, and man made the town,"

says Cowper; and it appears to me, that in England, of all other nations, the country is most worthy of God. If it cannot always boast of grandeur, every little meadow has an air of grace and beauty, were it only on account of the green hedge by which it is surrounded. The roads in France call to mind the cities to which they lead; but in England roads belong more especially to the country. They are kept in as good condition as the walks or drives in a park; and people of fortune, who have parks and pleasure grounds, never appear to be really at home, except in their own houses. In their country residences, the English nobility and gentry are surrounded by all the luxuries and comforts of life. Here they forego the etiquette which they so scrupulously observe in town. With their fine horses and hounds they enjoy the healthful sports of the field; or in tranquil retirement resign themselves to the contemplation of the choicest productions of art, and the stores of their valuable libraries. It has been justly observed, that our nobility withdraw to the country to repair their fortunes, when broken up and dissipated by extravagance in Paris. The

English aristocracy, on the other hand, live in the most profuse style in the country: when ruined, they rather hide themselves in London, or go and economize on the continent. The foreigner who visits Hampton-court, Sion House, Chiswick, Strawberry Hill, &c. in Middlesex, cannot but admire the happy union of the beauties of art and nature. The county of Surrey is also rich in villas, rivalling in elegance those of Italy, and containing treasures of art which might be supposed to exist only in Raphael's native land. Amidst such resources it is not easy to conceive that ennui is a disease essentially English; and it is difficult to account for the restless spirit which sends to the continent so many of the descendants of illustrious British heroes, roaming in quest of adventures like their noble ancestors... But no; instead of consoling the widow and orphan, they are contracting debts, and wasting their money upon our Opera figurantes.

The outskirts of London advance a considerable way into Middlesex and Surrey; but at the same time its suburbs present so rural an aspect, that it is difficult to say whether the country is encroaching on the town or the town on the country. Kensington-gardens, at the western extremity of London, may be compared to the park of St. Cloud, rather than to the Tuileries. Near Kensington-gardens is Hollandhouse, where the celebrated Fox loved to forget political turmoils in the cultivation of literature. Holland-house was the residence of Addison, the

author of Cato, who exercised more influence on his contemporaries as a writer than a statesman, and who for a while approximated English dramatic literature to the rules of French classic authors, though he raised his voice against the artificial style of our system of gardening. But unfortunately he could not convert his better half to the rules of the conjugal hierarchy. He married a fair Countess of the house of Holland, who regarded her noble birth as a more positive superiority than the literary talents of her husband. Poor Addison died of grief, being almost reduced to play the part of George Dandin.

The recollection of the principal writer of the Spectator, directs my thoughts to Stepney, whose old church is surrounded by tomb-stones, the singular epitaphs on which have been noticed by Steele. The village poets of the present day are not more sparing of the memory of the dead, and the humble grave-stone is doomed to record their compositions. In this respect Paris can claim no advantage over London, for even in our most superior burial grounds, the monumental marble exhibits the dull or ludicrous expressions of vanity, rather than the effusions of grief. Epitaphs really form a part of the literature of a people; indeed some ages of the world have transmitted to us no other historical monuments than tombs. If literary censorship be good at all, certainly it would be but just to exercise it in favour of those whom death consigns to the ridicule excited by vulgar encomium. The epitaph