is a part of the sacred worship of the dead; why then should it not be subjected to the rules of decorum, like funeral ceremonies? Calumny and slander are generally buried in the grave; why then should we be flattered by the ignorance or affectation of friends or even strangers? Would we not consign to oblivion the revered names of a parent or benefactor, rather than expose them to ridicule? In England, an epitaph frequently consists merely of a verse of scripture, which perhaps, after all, is most appropriate to the tomb of a Christian. One of the most affecting traditions revived by Sir Walter Scott, is that of the presbyterian, Old Mortality, who visits burial grounds, to retrace the obliterated names of the martyrs of his faith, and the holy attributes which adorn their grave-stones. It would doubtless have cost him a pang of regret to have rescued from oblivion the decaying monuments of his brethren, had their claims on his pious recollection been recorded by doggrel verses and grotesque emblems.

This digression has led me for a moment from Middlesex; and if I conduct you into the smiling county of Surrey, it will not be for the sake of shewing you Richmond Hill or Kew, but of describing to you a place which was once the temple of conjugal felicity, and is now a monument of England's grief. I allude to Claremont, where for brief space, the Princess Charlotte enjoyed that domestic happiness which so rarely falls to the lot of sovereigns. A little temple which was

commenced by the Princess, and finished by Prince Leopold, has been converted into a mausoleum, and contains a bust of her whose loss has been so long and sincerely deplored. The cypress, the yew, and the larch, mingling their gloomy foliage with the brighter verdure of other trees, diffuse around the structure a shade perfectly in unison with the melancholy ideas which such a place must naturally inspire. In the present age, when thrones are stripped of their illusion, and sovereigns appear such as they really are, the universal regret of which the Princess Charlotte is still the object, sufficiently attests the virtues which distinguished her. Public opinion boldly subjects the royal dead to that impartial judgment which was pronounced over the remains of the sovereigns of Egypt. All parties have deplored the premature death of the daughter of England. Tears like these are well worth a funeral oration by Bossuet.

The house and grounds of Claremont were planned by Messrs. Kent and Brown, of whom I shall hereafter speak more at length. The apartments are fitted up in a style of elegant simplicity, and a spirit of order and economy prevails in the distribution of the furniture and ornaments. The pictures consist of family portraits. To use an expression of Bonaparte's, Charlotte's heart was not in her head.

LETTER VI.

TO M. A. DE CHEVRY.

AT Seven Oaks, a town in Kent so called from seven oak-trees, which would now be looked for in vain, we find the tradition of the famous Jack Cade, who, at the head of a band of insurgent peasantry, defeated the army of Henry VI. commanded by Sir Humphrey Stafford. This might be truly called a war of la Jacquerie. At the same period England also had her war of the league, in the civil conflicts of the red and white roses. If I may continue these parallels, it may be observed, that the revolution gave us our Charles I. our anarchy styled republican, and our Cromwell; but let us hope that these comparisons will end with our double restoration.

In the neighbourhood of Seven Oaks are the magnificent park and Castle of Knowle, the residence of the Sackvilles, Dukes of Dorset. An ancestor of this family, Lord Buckhurst, has left his name in literature by his tragedy of Gorboduc, the first imitation of the regular classic drama. Lest any Aristarchus should be inclined to reproach Shakspeare, for not having taken the author of Gorboduc as his model, it may be observed that this tragedy is but a tissue of monotonous narratives and speeches, and a cold and heavy accumulation of incidents. There is more

poetic merit in the verses which this same nobleman has introduced into his collection of legends, entitled the Mirror for Magistrates.

I will now transport you to more poetic ground, namely Penshurst Park, the birth-place of Sir Philip Sydney, the author of Arcadia, and the most accomplished knight of Queen Elizabeth's court. Beside a beautiful piece of water stands a memorable oak tree, which is said to have been planted at the birth of Sydney, and which has been successively celebrated by Ben Jonson and Waller. The Sacharissa of the latter was a Sydney.

Go boy, and carve this passion on the bark

Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth.

Sir Philip Sydney, who, in the court of a queen more pedantic than amiable, was distinguished above every other for chivalric gallantry; that knight, whose life, says Campbell, may be regarded as poetry in action; that great Captain who for his valour on the field of glory, was offered the crown of Poland at the death of Stephen Bartori, was originally merely a humble dependant on the Earl of Oxford. His dispute with that nobleman shews the length to which the aristocratic pretensions of the privileged classes were at that period carried. Sydney, having been called a puppy by the earl, gave him the lie, and went out of the Tennis Court where they had been playing, expecting to be followed. Lord Oxford did not, however, think proper to demand

honourable satisfaction for the affront; and thequeen, interfering in the affair, reminded Sydney of the difference between a nobleman and a private gentleman. She required that he should make an apology; but Sydney refused to submit to this, and retired to Penshurst, where, for the amusement of his sister, he composed his Arcadia. This pastoral romance, which has been too highly praised by some, and too severely condemned by others, bears some resemblance to Urfe's Astrée and Montemayor's Diana. It is also in many respects an imitation of Sannazar, particularly in the verses in every kind of measure with which it is interspersed, and which are certainly not the best part of the work. Shakspeare, Spencer, and other distinguished poets have occasionally imitated Sydney; and Milton bitterly reproaches Charles I. for having borrowed from him a prayer which is introduced in the Ikon Basiliké, an eloquent manifesto long attributed to the royal victim. Indeed one of Milton's strange accusations against Charles is, that he sometimes read the Arcadia to divert the melancholy hours of his captivity. The taste for pastoral romances is now extinct; yet the Arcadia deserves to be read, were it only as a literary monument of the reign of Elizabeth. exhibits the figurative style, the mythological allusions, and the fatiguing allegories which were so much in favour at the time. Sydney, like his contemporaries, sometimes indulged in affectation and concetti, merely to gratify the taste of the virgin queen; but the style of the Arcadia is cer

It